THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Commodore  Byron  Me Candle ss 


"My  God!"    cried    Beekman,     staring    into    the    white    mist, 
appalled  by  what  he  saw.  Page  271 

BY  THE  WORLD  FORGOT 


By  The  World 
Forgot 

A  Double  Romance  of  the  East  and  West 
By  CYRUS  TOWNSEND  BRADY 


With  Frontispiece 
By  CLARENCE  F.  UNDERWOOD 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  A.  C.  McCLURo  &  COMPANY 


Copyright 

A.  C.  MoClurg  &  Co. 
1917 

Published  September,  1917 


TO 

MY  GOOD  FRIEND  AND  KINSMAIT 

JOHN  F.  BARRETT 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
"Ship  me  sometvheres  east  of  Sues" 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     A  Clash  of  Wills  and  Hearts 1 

II      The  Stubbornness  of  Stephanie 9 

III  Bill  Woywod  to  the  Rescue 20 

IV  A  Bachelor's  Dinner  and  Its  Ending     ...  35 
V     The  Wedding  That  Was  Not 45 

VI     Stephanie  Is  Glad  After  All 56 

VII     Up  Against  It  Hard 64 

VIII     The  Anvil  Must  Take  the  Pounding     ...  80 

IX     The  Game  and  the  End 90 

X     The  Mystery  of  the  Last  Words     ....  104 

XI     The  Triangle  Becomes  a  Quadrilateral     .      .  112 

BOOK  II 

"An'  they  talks  a  lot  o'  lovin', 
But  wot  do  they  understand?" 

XII     The  Hardest  of  Confessions 131 

XIII     The  Search  Determined  Upon 143 

XIV     The  Boatswain's  Story 154 


Contents 

BOOK  III 
"Where  tJiere  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments" 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV     The  Spirit  of  the  Island 171 

XVI     The  Speech  of  His  Forefathers     .     .     .     .  181 

XVII     The  House  That  Was  Taboo 194 

XVIII     Moonlight  Midnight  Madness 204 

XIX     The  Kiss  That  Was  Different 214 

XX     The  Message  of  the  Past 223 

XXI     The  Watcher  on  the  Rocks 230 

XXII     Twice  Saved  by  Truda 238 

XXIII  Truda  Comes  to  His  Prison 254 

XXIV  "So  Farre,  So  Fast  the  Eygre  Drave"     .     .  264 
XXV     The  Indomitable  Ego 273 

BOOK  IV 

"I've  a  neater,  sweeter  maiden, 
In  a  cleaner,  greener  land" 

XXVI     In  Danger  All 285 

XXVII     The  Speechless  Castaways 295 

XXVIII     They  Comfort  Each  Other 307 

XXIX     The  Island  Haven 314 

XXX     Revelations  and  Withholdings 321 

XXXI     Vi  et  Armis  332 


BOOK  I 

'Ship  me  somewhere*  east  of  Sues?' 


BY  THE  WORLD  FORGOT 


CHAPTER  I 

A  CLASH  OF  WILLS  AND  HEABTS 

'  TT^OR  the  last  time,  will  you  marry  me?" 
"No." 

"But  you  don't  love  him." 

"No." 

"And  you  do  love  me?" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"Would  I  be  here  if  I  did  not?" 

Now  that  adverb  was  rather  indefinite.  "Here"  might 
have  meant  the  private  office,  which  was  bad  enough,  or  his 
arms,  which  was  worse  or  better,  depending  upon  the  view 
point.  She  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  dispel  the  rea 
sonable  incredulity  of  the  man  than  to  nestle  closer  to  him,  if 
that  were  possible,  and  kiss  him.  It  was  not  a  perfunctory 
kiss,  either.  It  meant  something  to  the  woman,  and  she  made 
it  mean  something  to  the  man.  Indeed,  there  was  fire  and 
passion  enough  in  it  to  have  quickened  a  pulse  in  a  stone 
image.  It  answered  its  purpose  in  one  way.  There  could 
be  no  real  doubt  in  the  man's  mind  as  to  the  genuineness  of 
that  love  he  had  just  called  in  question  in  his  pique  at  her 
refusal.  The  kiss  thrilled  him  with  its  fervor,  but  it  left 

1 


By  the  World  Forgot 


him  more  miserable  than  ever.  It  did  not  plunge  him  imme 
diately  into  that  condition,  however,  for  he  drew  her  closer 
to  his  breast  again,  and  as  the  struck  flint  flashes  fire  he  gave 
her  back  all  that  she  had  given  him,  and  more. 

Ordinarily  in  moments  like  that  it  is  the  woman  who  first 
breaks  away,  but  the  solution  of  touch  was  brought  about  by 
the  man.  He  set  the  girl  down  somewhat  roughly  in  the 
chair  behind  the  big  desk  before  which  they  were  standing 
and  turned  away.  She  suffered  him  thus  to  dispose  of  her 
without  explanation.  Indeed,  she  divined  the  reason  which 
presently  came  to  his  lips  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  big 
room,  hands  in  pockets,  his  brows  knitted,  a  dark  frown  on 
his  face. 

"I  can't  stand  any  more  of  that  just  now,"  he  said,  refer 
ring  to  her  caress;  "if  ever  in  my  life  I  wanted  to  think 
clearly  it  is  now  and  with  you  in  my  arms —  Say,  for  the 
very  last  time,  will  you  marry  me?" 

"I  cannot." 

"You  mean  you  will  not." 

"Put  it  that  way  if  you  must.  It  amounts  to  the  same 
thing." 

"Why  can't  you,  or  won't  you,  then  ?" 

"I've  told  you  a  thousand  times." 

"Assume  that  I  don't  know  and  tell  me  again." 

"What's  the  use?" 

"Well,  it  gives  me  another  chance  to  show  you  how  fool 
ish  you  are,  to  overrule  every  absurd  argument  that  you  can 
put  forth  —  " 

"Except  two." 

"What  are  they?" 

"My  father  and  myself." 


'A  Clash  of  Wills  and  Hearts 


"Exactly.  You  have  inherited  a  full  measure,  excuse  me, 
of  his  infernal  obstinacy." 

"Most  people  call  it  invincible  determination." 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  it's  called,  it 
amounts  to  the  same  thing." 

"I  suppose  I  have." 

"Now  look  at  the  thing  plainly  from  a  practical  point  of 
view." 

"Is  there  anything  practical  in  romance,  in  love,  in 
passions  like  ours  ?" 

"There  is  something  practical  in  everything  I  do  and 
especially  in  this.  I've  gone  over  the  thing  a  thousand  times. 
I'll  go  over  it  again  once  more.  You  don't  love  the  man  you 
have  promised  to  marry ;  you  do  love  me.  Furthermore,  he 
doesn't  love  you  and  I  do  —  Oh,  he  has  a  certain  affection 
for  you,  I'll  admit.  Nobody  could  help  that,  and  it's  prob 
ably  growing,  too.  I  suppose  in  time  he  will  —  " 

"Love  me  as  you  do?" 

"Never ;  no  one  could  do  that,  but  as  much  as  he  could  love 
any  one.  But  that  isn't  the  point.  For  a  quixotic  scruple, 
a  mistaken  idea  of  honor,  an  utterly  unwarranted  concep 
tion  of  a  daughter's  duty,  you  are  going  to  marry  a  man 
you  don't  and  can't  love  and  —  " 

"You  are  very  positive.    How  do  you  know  I  can't?" 

"I  know  you  love  me  and  I  know  that  a  girl  like  you  can't 
change  any  more  than  I  can." 

"That's  the  truth,"  answered  the  girl  with  a  finality  which 
bespoke  extreme  youth,  and  shut  off  any  further  discussion 
of  that  phase. 

"Well,  then,  you'll  be  unhappy,  I'll  be  unhappy,  and  he'll 
be  unhappy." 


By  the  World  Forgot 


"I  can  make  him  happy." 

"No,  you  can't.  If*  he  learns  to  love  you  he  will  miss  what 
I  would  enjoy.  He'll  find  out  the  truth  and  be  miserable." 

"Your  solicitude  for  his  happiness  — " 

"Nonsense.  I  tell  you  I  can't  bear  to  give  you  up,  and 
I  won't.  I  shouldn't  be  asked  to.  You  made  me  love  you ; 
I  didn't  intend  to." 

"It  wasn't  a  difficult  task,"  said  the  girl  smiling  faintly 
for  the  first  time. 

"Task  ?  It  was  no  task  at  all.  The  first  time  I  saw  you 
I  loved  you,  and  now  you  have  lifted  me  up  to  heaven  only 
to  dash  me  down  to  hell." 

"Strong  language." 

"Not  strong  enough.  Seriously,  I  can't,  I  won't  let  you 
do  it." 

"You  must.  I  have  to.  You  don't  understand.  His 
father  gave  my  father  his  first  start  in  life." 

"Yes,  and  your  father  could  buy  his  father  twenty  times 
over." 

"Perhaps  he  could,  but  that  doesn't  count.  Our  two 
fathers  have  been  friends  ever  since  my  father  came  here, 
a  boy  without  money  or  friends  or  anything,  to  make  his 
fortune,  and  he  made  it." 

"I  wish  to  God  he  hadn't  and  you  were  as  poor  as  I  was 
when  I  landed  here  six  years  ago.  If  I  could  just  have  you 
without  your  millions  on  any  terms  I  should  be  happy.  It's 
those  millions  that  come  between  us." 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  admitted  the  girl,  recognizing  that  the 
man  only  spoke  the  truth.  "If  I  were  poor  it  would  be  quite 
different.  You  see  father's  got  pretty  much  everything  out 
of  life  that  money  could  buy.  He  has  no  ancestry  to  speak 


'A  Clash  of  Witts  and  Hearts 


of  but  he's  as  proud  as  a  peacock.  The  friendship  between 
the  two  families  has  been  maintained.  The  two  old  men 
determined  upon  this  alliance  as  soon  as  I  was  born.  My 
father's  heart  is  set  upon  it.  He  has  never  crossed  me  in 
anything.  He  has  been  the  kindest  and  most  indulgent  of 
men.  Next  to  you  I  worship  him.  It  would  break  his  heart 
if  I  should  back  out  now.  Indeed,  he  is  so  set  upon  it  that 
I  am  sure  he  would  never  consent  to  my  marrying  you  or 
anybody  else.  He  would  disinherit  me." 

"Let  him,  let  him.  I've  the  best  prospects  of  any  broker 
in  New  York,  and  I've  already  got  enough  money  for  us  to 
live  on  comfortably." 

"I  gave  my  word  openly,  freely,"  answered  the  girl.  "I 
wasn't  in  love  with  any  one  then  and  I  liked  him  as  well  as 
any  man  I  had  ever  met.  Now  that  his  father  has  died,  my 
father  is  doubly  set  upon  it.  I  simply  must  go  through 
with  it." 

"And  as  your  father  sacrificed  pretty  much  everything  to 
build  the  family  fortune,  so  you  are  going  to  sacrifice 
yourself  to  add  position  to  it." 

"Now  that  is  unworthy  of  you,"  said  the  girl  earnestly. 
''That  motive  may  be  my  father's  but  it  isn't  mine." 

"Forgive  me,"  said  the  man,  who  knew  that  the  girl  spoke 
even  less  than  the  truth. 

"I  can  understand  how  you  feel  because  I  feel  desperate 
myself;  but  honor,  devotion,  obedience  to  a  living  man, 
promise  to  a  dead  man,  his  father,  who  was  as  fond  of  me 
as  if  I  had  already  been  his  daughter,  all  constrain  me." 

"They  don't  constrain  me,"  said  the  man  desperately, 
coming  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  big  desk  and  smiting  it 
heavily  with  his  hand.  "All  that  weighs  nothing  with  me. 


By  the  World  Forgot 


I  have  a  mind  to  pick  you  up  now  and  carry  you  away 
bodily." 

"I  wish  you  could,"  responded  the  girl  with  so  much 
honest  simplicity  that  his  heart  leaped  at  the  idea,  "but  you 
could  never  get  further  than  the  elevator,  or,  if  you  went 
down  the  stairs,  than  the  street,  because  my  honor  would 
compel  me  to  struggle  and  protest." 

"You  wouldn't  do  that." 

"I  would.  I  would  have  to.  For  if  I  didn't  there  would 
be  no  submitting  to  force  majeure.  No,  my  dear  boy,  it  is 
quite  hopeless." 

"It  isn't.    For  the  last  time,  will  you  marry  me?" 

"As  I  have  answered  that  appeal  a  hundred  times  in  the 
last  six  months,  I  cannot." 

"Are  there  any  conditions  under  which  you  could  ?" 

"Two." 

"What  are  they?" 

"What  is  the  use  of  talking  about  them?  They  cannot 
occur." 

"Nevertheless  tell  me  what  they  are.  I've  got  everything 
I've  ever  gone  after  heretofore.  I've  got  some  of  your 
father's  perseverance." 

"You  called  it  obstinacy  a  while  ago." 

"Well,  it's  perseverance  in  me.  What  are  your  con 
ditions?" 

"The  consent  of  two  people." 

"And  who  are  they  ?" 

"My  father  and  my  fiance." 

"I  have  your  own,  of  course." 

"Yes,  and  you  have  my  heartiest  prayer  that  you  may 
get  both.  Oh,"  she  went  on,  throwing  up  her  hands.  "I 


A  Clash  of  Wills  and  Hearts 


don't  think  I  can  stand  any  more  of  this.  I  know  what  I 
must  do  and  you  must  not  urge  me.  These  scenes  are  too 
much  for  me." 

"Why  did  you  come  here,  then  ?"  asked  the  man.  "You 
know  I  can't  be  in  your  presence  without  appealing  to 
you." 

"To  show  you  this,"  said  the  girl,  drawing  a  yellow 
telegram  slip  from  her  bag  which  she  had  thrown  on  the 
desk. 

"Is  it  from  him?  I  had  one,  too,"  answered  the  man, 
picking  it  up. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  girl,  "since  you  and  he  are  partners 
in  business.  I  never  thought  of  that.  I  should  not  have 
come." 

"Heaven  bless  you  for  having  done  so.  Every  moment 
that  I  see  you  makes  me  more  determined.  If  I  could  see 
you  all  the  time  and  —  " 

"He'll  be  here  in  a  month,"  interrupted  the  girl.  "He 
wants  the  wedding  to  take  place  immediately  and  so  do  I." 

"Why  this  indecent  haste?" 

"It  has  been  a  year  since  the  first  postponement  and  — 
Oh,  what  must  be  must  be !  I  want  to  get  it  over  and  be 
done  with  it.  I  can't  stand  these  scenes  any  more  than  you 
can.  Look  at  me." 

The  man  did  more  than  look.  The  sight  of  the  piteous 
appealing  figure  was  more  than  he  could  stand.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms  again. 

"I  wish  to  God  he  had  drowned  in  the  South  Seas,"  he 
said  savagely. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that.  He's  your  best  friend,"  interposed 
the  girl,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  lips. 


8  By  the  World  Forgot 


"But  you  are  the  woman  I  love,  and  no  friendship  shall 
come  between  us." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  and  drew  herself  away. 

"I  must  go  now.    I  really  can't  endure  this  any  longer." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  man,  turning  to  get  his  hat. 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "you  musn't  come  with  me." 

"As  you  will,"  said  the  other,  "but  hear  me.  That 
wedding  is  set  for  thirty  days  from  today  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I'll  not  give  you  up  until  you  are  actually  married 
to  him.  I'll  find  some  way  to  stop  it,  to  gain  time,  to  break 
it  off.  I  swear  you  shan't  marry  him  if  I  have  to  commit 
murder." 

She  thought  he  spoke  with  the  pardonable  exaggeration 
of  a  lover.  She  shook  her  head  and  bit  her  lip  to  keep  back 
the  tears. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said.    "It  is  no  use.    We  can't  help  it." 

She  was  gone.  But  the  man  was  not  jesting.  He  was  in  a 
state  to  conceive  anything  and  to  attempt  to  carry  out  the 
wildest  and  most  extravagant  proposition.  He  sat  down  at 
his  desk  to  think  it  over,  having  told  his  clerks  in  the  outer 
office  that  he  was  not  to  be  disturbed  by  any  one  for  any 
cause. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  STUBBORNNESS   OP   STEPHANIE 

AT  one  point  of  the  triangle  stands  the  beautiful 
Stephanie  Maynard;  at  another,  George  Harnash, 
able  and  energetic ;  at  the  third,  Derrick  Beekman,  who  was  a 
dilettante  in  life.  George  Harnash  is  something  of  a  villain, 
although  he  does  not  end  as  the  wicked  usually  do.  Derrick 
Beekman  is  the  hero,  although  he  does  not  begin  as  heroes 
are  expected  to  do.  Stephanie  Maynard  is  just  a  woman, 
heroine  or  not,  as  shall  be  determined.  Before  long  the 
triangle  will  be  expanded  into  a  square  by  the  addition  of 
another  woman,  also  with  some  decided  qualifications  for  a 
heroine ;  but  she  comes  later,  not  too  late,  however,  to  play 
«,  deciding  part  in  the  double  love  story  into  which  we  are 
to  be  plunged. 

Of  that  more  anon,  as  the  sixteenth  century  would  put  it ; 
and  indeed  this  story  of  today  reaches  back  into  that  bygone 
period  for  one  of  its  origins.  Romance  began  —  where? 
when  ?  All  romances  began  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  but  it 
needs  not  to  trace  the  development  of  this  one  through  all 
the  centuries  intervening  between  that  period  and  today. 
This  story,  if  not  its  romance,  began  with  an  arrangement. 
The  arrangement  was  entered  into  between  Derrick  Beekman 
senior,  since  deceased,  and  John  Maynard,  still  very  much 
alive. 

Maynard  was  a  new  man  in  New  York,  a  new  man  on  the 

9 


10  By  the  World  Forgot 

street.  He  was  the  head  of  the  great  Inter-Oceanic  Trading 
Company.  The  Maynard  House  flag  floated  over  every 
sea  from  the  mast  heads,  or  jack  staffs,  of  the  Maynard 
ships.  Almost  as  widely  known  as  the  house  flag  was  the 
Maynard  daughter.  The  house  flag  was  simple  but  beau 
tiful  ;  the  daughter  was  beautiful  but  by  no  means  simple. 
She  was  a  highly  specialized  product  of  the  nineteenth 
.century.  Being  the  only  child  of  much  money,  she  was 
everything  outwardly  and  visibly  that  her  father  desired 
her  to  be,  and  to  make  her  that  he  had  planned  carefully 
and  spent  lavishly.  With  her  father's  undeniable  money 
and  her  own  undisputed  beauty  she  was  a  great  figure  in 
New  York  society  from  the  beginning. 

No  one  could  have  so  much  of  both  the  desirable  attributes 
mentioned  —  beauty  and  money  —  and  go  unspoiled  in  New 
York  —  certainly  not  until  age  had  tempered  youth.  But 
Stephanie  Maynard  was  rather  an  unusual  girl.  Many  of 
her  good  qualities  were  latent  but  they  were  there.  It  was 
not  so  much  those  hidden  good  qualities  but  the  dazzling 
outward  and  visible  characteristics  that  had  attracted  the 
attention  of  old  Derrick  Beekman. 

Beekman  had  everything  that  Maynard  had  not  and  some 
few  things  that  Maynard  had  —  in  a  small  measure,  at  least. 
For  instance,  he  was  a  rich  man,  although  his  riches  could 
only  be  spoken  of  modestly  beside  Maynard's  vast  wealth. 

But  Beekman  added  to  a  comfortable  fortune  an  unques 
tioned  social  position ;  old,  established,  assured.  Those  who 
would  fain  make  game  of  him  behind  his  back  —  such  a 
thing  was  scarcely  possible  to  his  face  —  used  to  say  that 
he  traced  his  descent  to  every  Dutchman  that  ever  rallied 
around  one-legged,  obstinate,  Peter  Stuyvesant  and  his 


The  Stubbornness  of  Stephanie  11 

predecessors.  The  social  approval  of  the  Beekmans  —  origi 
nally,  of  course,  Van  Beeckman  —  was  like  a  lettre  de  cachet. 
It  immediately  imprisoned  one  in  the  tightest  and  most 
exclusive  circle  of  New  York,  the  social  bastille  from  which 
the  fortunate  captive  is  rarely  ever  big  enough  to  wish  to 
break  out. 

Beekman's  pride  in  his  ancestry  was  only  matched  by 
his  ambitions  for  his  son,  like  Stephanie  Maynard,  an  only 
child.  If  to  the  position  and,  as  he  fancied,  the  brains  of 
the  Beekmans  could  be  allied  the  fortune  and  the  business 
acumen  of  the  Maynards,  the  world  itself  would  be  at  the 
feet  of  the  result  of  such  a  union.  Now  Maynard's  money 
bought  him  most  things  he  wanted  but  it  had  not  bought 
and  could  not  buy  Beekman  and  that  for  which  he  stood. 
Maynard's  beautiful  daughter  had  to  be  thrown  into  the 
scales. 

Maynard  had  no  ancestry  in  particular.  Self-made  men 
usually  laugh  at  the  claims  of  long  descent,  but  secretly 
they  feel  differently.  Being  the  Rudolph  of  Hapsburg  of 
the  family  is  more  of  a  pose  or  a  boast  than  not.  I  doubt 
not  that  even  the  great  Corsican  felt  that  in  his  secret  heart 
which  he  revealed  to  no  one.  Maynard's  patent  of  nobility 
might  date  from  his  first  battle  on  the  stock  exchange,  his 
financial  Montenotte,  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  would 
rather  it  had  its  origin  in  some  old  and  musty  parchment 
of  the  past. 

Beekman,  who  was  much  older  than  Maynard,  had  actu 
ally  helped  that  young  man  when  he  first  started  out  to 
encounter  the  world  and  the  flesh  and  the  devil  in  New  York 
and  to  beat  them  down  or  bring  them  to  heel.  A  friendship, 
purely  business  at  first,  largely  patronizing  in  the  beginning 


12  By  the  World  Forgot 

on  the  one  hand,  deferentially  grateful  on  the  other,  had 
grown  up  between  the  somewhat  ill-sorted  pair.  And  it  had 
not  been  broken  with  passing  years. 

Maynard,  unfortunately  for  his  social  aspirations,  had 
married  before  he  had  become  great.  Many  men  achieve 
greatness  only  to  find  a  premature  partner  an  encumbrance 
to  a  career.  However,  Maynard's  wife,  another  social 
nobody  with  little  but  beauty  to  recommend  her,  had  done 
her  best  for  her  husband  by  dying  before  she  was  either  a 
drag  or  a  help  to  his  fortunes.  The  two  men,  each  actuated 
by  different  motives,  which,  however,  tended  to  the  same 
end,  had  arranged  the  match  between  the  last  Beekman  and 
the  first  Maynard;  and  that  each  secretly  fancied  himself 
condescending  to  the  other  did  not  stand  in  the  way.  The 
young  people  had  agreeably  fallen  in  with  the  proposals  of 
the  elders,  neither  of  whom  was  accustomed  to  be  balked  or 
questioned  —  for  old  Beekman  was  as  much  of  an  autocrat 
as  Maynard.  Filial  obedience  was  indeed  a  tradition  in 
the  Beekman  family.  There  were  no  traditions  at  all  in 
the  Maynard  family,  but  the  same  custom  obtained  with 
regard  to  Stephanie. 

Young  Beekman  was  good  looking,  athletic,  prominent 
in  society,  a  graduate  of  the  best  university,  popular,  and 
generally  considered  able,  although  he  had  accomplished 
little,  having  no  stimulus  thereto,  by  which  to  justify  that 
public  opinion.  He  went  everywhere,  belonged  to  the  best 
clubs,  and  was  a  most  eligible  suitor.  He  danced  divinely, 
conversed  amusingly,  made  love  gallantly  if  somewhat  per 
functorily,  having  had  abundant  practice  in  all  pursuits. 
For  the  rest,  what  little  business  he  transacted  was  as  a 
broker  and  business  partner  of  George  Harnash,  who,  for 


The  Stubbornness  of  Stephanie  13 

their  common  good,  made  the  most  of  the  connections  to 
which  Beekman  could  introduce  him. 

Beekman,  who  had  taken  life  lightly,  indeed,  at  once 
recognized  the  wisdom  of  his  father's  rather  forcible  sug 
gestion  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  settle  down.  He  saw 
how  the  Maynard  millions  would  enhance  his  social  prestige, 
and  if  he  should  be  moved  to  undertake  business  affairs 
seriously,  as  Harnash  often  urged,  would  offer  a  substantial 
background  for  his  operations. 

Stephanie  Maynard  was  beautiful  enough  to  please  any 
man.  She  was  well  enough  educated  and  well  enough  trained 
for  the  most  fastidious  of  the  fastidious  Beekmans.  In  any 
real  respect  she  was  a  fit  match  for  Derrick  Beekman,  indeed 
for  anybody.  There  was  no  society  into  which  she  would 
be  introduced  that  she  would  not  grace. 

From  a  feeling  of  condescension  quite  in  keeping  with 
his  blood  young  Beekman  was  rapidly  growing  more  inter 
ested  in  and  more  fond  of  his  promised  wife.  Her  feelings 
probably  would  have  developed  along  the  same  lines  had 
it  not  been  for  George  Harnash.  He  was  Beekman's  best 
friend.  They  had  been  classmates  and  roommates  at  college. 
Harnash  like  Beekman  was  a  broker.  Indeed  the  firm  of 
Beekman  &  Harnash  was  already  well  spoken  of  on  the 
street,  especially  on  account  of  the  ability  of  the  junior 
partner,  who  was  everywhere  regarded  as  a  young  man  with 
a  brilliant  future. 

Now  Harnash  hung,  as  it  were,  like  Mohammed's  coffin, 
'twixt  heaven  and  earth.  He  was  not  socially  assured  and 
unexceptionable  as  Beekman,  but  he  was  much  more  so  than 
the  Maynards.  He  did  not  begin  with  even  the  modest 
wealth  of  the  former,  but  he  was  rapidly  acquiring  a  for- 


14  TSy  the  World  Forgot 

tune  and,  what  is  better,  winning  the  respect  and  admiration 
of  friends  and  enemies  alike  by  his  bold  and  successful  opera 
tions.  It  was  generally  recognized  that  Harnash  was  the 
more  active  of  the  two  young  partners.  Beekman  had  put 
in  most  of  the  capital,  having  inherited  a  reasonable  sum 
from  his  mother  and  much  more  from  his  father,  but 
Harnash  was  the  guiding  spirit  of  the  firm's  transactions. 

Harnash,  who  was  the  exact  opposite  of  Beekman,  as  fair 
as  the  other  man  was  dark,  fell  wildly  in  love  with  Stephanie 
Maynard.  To  do  him  justice,  this  plunge  occurred  before 
definite  matrimonial  arrangements  between  the  houses  of 
Beekman  and  Maynard  had  been  entered  into.  Harnash 
had  not  contemplated  such  a  possibility.  The  two  friends 
were  in  exceedingly  confidential  relationship  to  each  other, 
and  Beekman  had  manifested  only  a  most  casual  interest 
in  Stephanie  Maynard.  Harnash,  seeing  the  present  hope 
lessness  of  his  passion,  had  concealed  it  from  Beekman. 
Therefore,  the  announcement  casually  made  by  his  friend 
and  confirmed  the  day  after  by  the  society  papers  over 
whelmed  him. 

To  do  him  justice  further,  while  it  could  not  be  said  that 
Harnash  was  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  the  woman  he  loved 
was  her  father's  daughter,  he  would  have  loved  her  if  she 
had  been  a  nobody.  While  he  could  not  be  indifferent  to 
the  further  fact  that  whoever  won  her  would  ultimately 
command  the  Maynard  millions,  George  Harnash  was  so 
confident  of  his  own  ability  to  succeed  that  he  would  have 
preferred  to  make  his  own  way  and  have  his  wife  dependent 
upon  him  for  everything.  However,  he  was  too  level  headed 
a  New  Yorker  not  to  realize  that  even  if  he  could  achieve 
his  ambition  the  Maynard  millions  would  come  in  handy. 


THe  Stubbornness  of  Stephanie  15 

The  thing  that  made  it  so  hard  for  Harnash  to  bear  the 
new  situation  was  the  carelessness  with  which  Beekman 
entered  into  it.  He  felt  that  if  the  marriage  could  be  pre 
vented  it  would  not  materially  interfere  with  the  happiness 
of  his  friend.  Harnash  had  deliberately  set  himself  to  the 
acquirement  of  everything  he  desired.  Honorably,  law 
fully,  if  he  could  he  would  get  what  he  wanted,  but  get  it 
he  would.  He  found  that  he  had  never  wanted  anything 
so  much  as  he  wanted  Stephanie  Maynard.  Money  and 
position  had  been  his  ambitions,  but  these  gave  place  to 
a  woman.  He  did  not  arrive  at  a  determination  to  take 
Stephanie  Maynard  from  Derrick  Beekman,  if  he  could, 
without  great  searchings  of  heart,  but  the  more  he  thought 
about  it,  the  longer  he  contemplated  the  possibility  of  the 
marriage  of  the  woman  he  loved  to  the  man  he  also  loved, 
the  more  impossible  grew  the  situation. 

At  first  he  had  put  all  thought  of  self  out  of  his  mind,  or 
had  determined  so  to  do,  in  order  to  accept  the  situation, 
but  he  made  the  mistake  of  continuing  to  see  Stephanie 
during  the  process  and  when  he  discovered  that  she  was 
not  indifferent  to  him  he  hesitated,  wavered,  fell.  By  fair 
means  or  foul  the  engagement  must  be  broken.  It  could 
only  be  accomplished  by  getting  Derrick  Beekman  out  of 
the  way.  After  that  he  would  wring  a  consent  out  of 
Maynard.  To  that  decision  the  girl  had  unconsciously 
contributed  by  laying  down  conditions  which,  by  a 
curious  mental  twist,  the  man  felt  in  honor  bound  to 
meet. 

Both  the  elder  Beekman  and  John  Maynard  were  men  of 
firmness  and  decision.  Wedding  preparations  had  gone  on 
apace.  The  invitations  were  all  but  out  when  Beekman  was 


16  By  the  World  Forgot 

gathered  to  his  ancestors— there  could  be  no  heaven  for 
him  where  they  were  not  —  after  an  apoplectic  stroke.  This 
postponed  the  wedding  and  gave  George  Harnash  more 
time.  Now  Derrick  Beekman  had  devotedly  loved  his  stern, 
proud  old  father,  the  only  near  relative  he  had  in  the  world. 
He  decided  to  spend  the  time  intervening  between  that 
father's  sudden  and  shocking  death  and  his  marriage  on  a 
yachting  cruise  to  the  South  Seas.  It  was  characteristic 
of  his  feeling  for  Stephanie  Maynard  that  he  had  not  hesi 
tated  to  leave  her  for  that  long  period.  The  field  was  thus 
left  entirely  to  Harnash. 

The  Maynard-Beekman  engagement,  of  course,  had  been 
made  public,  and  Stephanie's  other  suitors  had  accepted 
the  situation,  but  not  Harnash.  He  was  a  man  of  great 
power  and  persuasiveness  and  ability  and  he  made  love  with 
the  same  desperate,  concentrated  energy  that  he  played  the 
business  game.  He  was  quite  frank  about  it.  He  told 
Stephanie  that  if  she  or  Beekman  or  both  of  them  had 
shown  any  passion  for  the  other,  such  as  he  felt  for  her,  he 
would  have  considered  himself  in  honor  bound  to  eliminate 
himself,  but  since  it  would  obviously  be  un  manage  de 
convenance,  since  both  the  parties  thereto  would  enter  into 
it  lightly  and  unadvisedly,  he  was  determined  to  interpose. 
And  there  was  even  in  the  girl's  eyes  abundant  justification 
for  his  action. 

No  woman  wants  to  be  taken  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Stephanie  Maynard  had  been  widely  wooed,  more  or  less  all 
over  the  world.  Although  she  did  not  care  especially  for 
Derrick  Beekman,  she  resented  his  somewhat  cavalier  atti 
tude  toward  her,  and  his  witty,  amusing,  but  by  no  means 
passionately  devoted  letters,  somewhat  infrequent,  too. 


The  Stubbornness  of  Stephanie  17 

Harnash  made  great  progress,  yet  he  came  short  of  complete 
success. 

The  Maynards  were  nobodies  socially,  that  is,  their  ances 
tors  had  been,  and  they  had  not  yet  broken  into  the  most 
exclusive  set,  the  famous  hundred  and  fifty  of  New  York's 
best,  as  they  styled  themselves  to  the  great  amusement  of 
the  remaining  five  million  or  so,  but  they  came,  after  all, 
of  a  stock  possessed  of  substantial  virtues.  Stephanie's 
father  was  accustomed  to  boast  that  his  word  was  his  bond, 
and,  unlike  many  who  say  that,  it  really  was.  People  got  to 
know  that  when  old  John  Maynard  said  a  thing  he  could  be 
depended  upon.  If  he  gave  a  promise  he  would  keep  it 
even  if  he  ruined  himself  in  the  keeping,  and  his  daughter, 
in  that  degree,  was  not  unlike  him. 

Almost  a  year  after  his  father's  death  Derrick  Beekman 
sent  cablegrams  from  Honolulu  saying  he  was  coming  back, 
and  George  Harnash  and  Stephanie  awoke  from  their  dream. 

"I  love  you,"  repeated  Stephanie  to  Harnash  in  another 
of  the  many,  not  to  say  continuous,  discussions  they  held 
after  that  day  at  the  office.  "You  can't  have  any  doubt 
about  that,  but  my  word  has  been  passed.  I  don't  dislike 
Derrick,  either.  But  I'd  give  anything  on  earth  if  I  were 
free." 

"And  when  you  were  free?" 

"You  know  that  I'd  marry  you  in  a  minute." 

"Even  if  your  father  forbade?" 

"I  don't  believe  he  would." 

"If  he  did  we  would  win  him  over." 

"You  might  as  well  try  to  win  over  a  granite  mountain, 
But  there's  no  use  talking,  I'm  not  free." 

"It's  this  foolish  pride  of  yours." 


18  By  the  World  Forgot 

"Foolish  it  may  be.  I've  heard  so  much  about  the  Beek- 
man  word  of  honor  and  the  Beekman  faith  that  I  want  to 
show  that  the  Maynard  honor  and  faith  and  determination 
are  no  less." 

"And  you  are  going  to  sacrifice  yourself  and  me  for  that 
shibboleth,  are  you  ?" 

"I  see  no  other  way.  Believe  me,"  said  the  girl,  who  had 
resolved  to  allow  no  more  demonstrations  of  affection  now 
that  it  was  all  settled  and  her  prospective  husband  was  on  the 
way  to  her,  "I  seem  cold  and  indifferent  to  you,  but  if  I  let 
myself  go  —  " 

"Oh,  Stephanie,  please  let  yourself  go  again,  even  if  for 
the  last  time,"  pleaded  George  Harnash,  and  Stephanie  did. 
When  coherent  speech  was  possible  he  continued:  "Well, 
if  Beekman  himself  releases  you  or  if  he  withdrew  or 
disappeared  or — " 

"I  don't  have  to  tell  you  what  my  answer  would  be." 

"And  I've  got  to  be  best  man  at  the  wedding !  I've  got  to 
stand  by  and  —  " 

"Why  didn't  you  speak  before?"  asked  the  girl  bit 
terly. 

"I  was  no  match  for  you  then.  I'm  not  a  match  for  you 
now." 

"You  should  have  let  me  be  the  judge  of  that." 

"But  your  father?" 

"I  tell  you  if  I  hadn't  promised,  all  the  fathers  on  earth 
wouldn't  make  any  difference.  Now  we  have  lived  in  a 
fool's  paradise  for  a  year.  You're  Derrick's  friend  and 
you're  mine." 

"Only  your  friend?" 

"Do  I  have  to  tell  you  again  how  much  I  love  you  ?    But 


The  Stubbornness  of  Stephanie  19 

that  must  stop  now.  It  should  have  stopped  long  ago.  You 
can't  come  here  any  more  except  as  Derrick's  friend." 

"I  can't  come  here  at  all,  then." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  And  that  will  be  best.  Let  us  put 
this  behind  us  as  a  dream  of  happiness  which  we  will  never 
forget,  but  from  which  we  awake  to  find  it  only  a  dream." 

"It's  no  dream  to  me.  I  will  never  give  you  up.  I  will 
never  cease  to  try  to  make  it  a  reality  until  you  are  bound 
to  the  other  man." 

They  were  standing  close  together  as  it  was,  but  he  took 
the  step  that  brought  him  to  her  side  and  he  swept  her  to 
his  heart  without  resistance  on  her  part.  She  would  give 
her  hand  to  Derrick  Beekman,  but  her  heart  she  could  not 
give,  for  that  was  in  George  Harnash's  possession,  and  when 
he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  she  suffered  him. 
She  kissed  him  back.  Her  own  arms  drew  him  closer.  It 
was  a  passionate  farewell,  a  burial  service  for  a  love  that 
could  not  go  further.  It  was  she  who  pushed  him  from  her. 

"I  will  never  give  you  up,  never,"  he  repeated.  "Great 
as  is  my  regard  for  Beekman,  sometimes  I  think  that  I'll 
kill  him  at  the  very  foot  of  the  altar  to  have  you." 

Stephanie's  iron  control  gave  way.  She  burst  into  tears, 
and  George  Harnash  could  say  nothing  to  comfort  her,  but 
only  gritted  his  teeth  as  he  tore  himself  away,  revolving 
all  sorts  of  plans  to  accomplish  his  own  desires. 

To  him  came,  with  Mephistophelian  appositeness,  Mr. 
Bill  Woywod. 


CHAPTER  III 

BII/L  WOYWOD  TO   THE  RESCUE 

fTIHE  three  weeks  that  followed  were  more  fraught  with, 
•••  unpleasantness,  not  to  say  misery,  than  any  Stephanie 
Maynard  and  George  Harnash  had  ever  passed.  Of  the 
two,  Harnash  was  in  the  worse  case.  Stephanie  had  two 
things  to  distract  her. 

The  approaching  wedding  meant  the  preparation  of  a 
trousseau.  What  had  been  got  ready  the  year  before  would 
by  no  means  serve  for  the  second  attempt  at  matrimony. 
Now  no  matter  how  deep  and  passionate  a  woman's  feelings 
are  she  can  never  be  indifferent  to  the  preparation  of  a 
trousseau.  Even  death,  which  looms  so  horribly  before  the 
feminine  mind,  would  be  more  tolerable  if  it  were  accom 
panied  by  a  similar  demand  upon  her  activities.  Yet  a 
woman's  grief  in  bereavement  is  never  so  deep  as  to  make 
her  careless  as  to  the  fit  or  becomingness  of  her  mourning 
habiliments.  Much  more  is  this  true  of  wedding  garments. 

Now  if  these  somewhat  cynical  and  slighting  remarks  be 
reprehended,  nevertheless  there  is  occupation  even  for  the 
sacrificial  victim  in  the  preparation  of  a  trousseau  which, 
were  it  not  so  pleasant  a  pursuit,  might  even  be  called  labor. 
The  fit  of  Stephanie's  dresses  on  her  beautiful  figure  was 
not  accomplished  without  toil,  albeit  of  the  submissive  sort, 
on  the  part  of  the  young  lady.  That  was  her  first  diversion. 

For  the  second  relief  the  girl  had  a  great  deal  more  con- 

20 


Bill  Woywod  to  the  Rescue  21 

fidence  in  her  lover's  promise  than  he  had  himself  in  his 
own  prowess.  Try  as  he  might,  plan  as  he  could,  he  found 
no  way  out  of  the  impasse  so  long  as  the  solution  of  it  was 
left  entirely  to  him,  and  the  woman  was  determined  to  be 
but  a  passive  instrument. 

The  obvious  course  was  to  go  frankly  to  his  friend  and 
lay  before  him  the  whole  state  of  affairs  in  the  hope  that 
Beekman  himself  would  cut  the  Gordian  knot  by  declining 
the  lady's  hand.  Two  considerations  prevented  that.  In 
the  first  place,  Beekman  had  confidingly  placed  his  love 
affair,  together  with  his  business  affairs,  in  the  hands  of  his 
partner.  Harnash  had  not  meant  to  play  the  traitor  but  he 
had  been  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  that  Stephanie  pre 
sented,  and  he  simply  could  not  bring  himself  to  make  such 
a  bare-faced  admission  of  a  breach  of  trust.  Besides,  he 
reasoned  shrewdly  that  even  if  he  did  make  such  a  confession 
it  was  by  no  means  certain  that  Derrick  Beekman  would 
give  up  the  girl.  His  letters,  since  his  cable  from  Hawaii, 
had  rather  indicated  a  strengthening  of  his  affection,  and 
Harnash  suspected  that  the  realization  that  his  betrothed 
was  violently  desired  by  someone  else  would  just  about 
develop  that  affection  into  a  passion  which  could  hardly  be 
withstood. 

In  the  second  place,  even  if  Beekman's  affection  for 
Harnash  would  lead  him  to  take  the  action  desired  by  his 
friend,  there  would  still  be  Mr.  Maynard  to  be  won  over. 
Harnash  had  not  been  associated  with  Maynard  as  a  broker 
in  various  transactions  which  the  older  man  had  engineered, 
without  having  formed  a  sufficiently  correct  judgment  of 
his  character  to  enable  him  to  forecast  absolutely  what 
Maynard's  position  would  be  in  that  emergency.  Maynard 


22  By  the  World  Forgot 

had  a  considerable  liking  and  a  growing  respect  for  young 
Harnash.  He  had  casually  remarked  to  his  daughter  on 
more  than  one  occasion  that  Harnash  was  a  young  man 
who  would  be  heard  from.  Maynard  had  observed  that 
Harnash  strove  for  many  things  and  generally  got  what 
he  wanted. 

Perhaps  that  remark,  which  the  poor  girl  had  treasured 
in  her  heart,  had  something  to  do  with  her  confidence  that 
somehow  or  other  Harnash  would  work  out  the  problem. 
But  Harnash  knew  very  well  how  terrible,  not  to  say  vin 
dictive,  an  antagonist  and  enemy  Maynard  could  be  when 
he  was  crossed.  If  Beekman  withdrew  from  the  engagement, 
broke  off  the  marriage,  about  which  there  had  been  suffi 
cient  notoriety  on  account  of  the  first  postponement  after 
the  older  Beekman's  death,  Maynard's  rage  would  know  no 
bounds.  He  would  assuredly  wreak  his  vengeance  upon 
Beekman,  and  if  Harnash  were  implicated  in  any  way  the 
punishment  would  be  extended  to  him. 

Harnash  knew  that  Beekman  would  not  have  cared  a  snap 
of  his  finger  for  the  older  Maynard's  wrath.  He  was  not 
that  kind  of  a  man.  Nor  would  he  himself  have  been 
deterred  by  the  thought  of  it  had  he  been  a  little  more 
sure  of  his  position  financially.  Whatever  else  he  lacked, 
Harnash  had  courage  to  tackle  anything  or  anybody, 
if  there  were  the  faintest  prospect  of  success.  But  to 
fight  Maynard  at  that  stage  in  his  career  was  an  impos 
sibility.  These  weighty  reasons  accordingly  decided  him 
that  it  was  useless  and  indeed  impossible  to  appeal  to  his 
friend. 

Again,  while  Harnash  was  accustomed  to  stop  at  nothing 
to  procure  his  ends,  and  while  he  had  declared  that  he  would 


Bill  Woytvod  to  the  Rescue  23 

murder  Beekman,  he  knew  that  although  he  meant  it  more 
than  Stephanie  supposed,  he  did  not  mean  it  enough  to  be 
able  to  do  anything  like  that.  His  mind  was  in  a  turmoil. 
He  really  was  fond  of  Beekman,  and  if  Stephanie  and 
Derrick  had  been  wildly  in  love  with  each  other  Harnash 
believed  that  he  would  have  been  man  enough  to  have  kept 
out  of  the  way  and  have  fought  down  his  disappointment  as 
best  he  could.  As  it  was,  there  was  reason  and  justice  in 
what  he  urged.  Since  Stephanie  loved  him  and  did  not 
love  Beekman,  and  since  Beekman's  affection  was  of  a  placid 
nature,  the  approaching  union  was  horrible. 

The  wildest  schemes  and  plans  ran  through  his  head  or 
were  suggested  to  him  after  intense  thought,  only  to  be 
rejected.  The  problem  finally  narrowed  itself  down  to  a 
question  of  time.  Harnash  was  a  great  believer  in  the  func 
tion  of  time  in  determining  events.  If  he  could  postpone 
the  marriage  again  he  would  have  greater  opportunity  to 
work  and  plan.  He  had  enough  confidence  in  himself, 
backed  by  Stephanie's  undoubted  affection,  to  make  him 
believe  that  with  time  he  could  bring  about  anything.  There 
fore  he  must  eliminate  Derrick  Beekman,  temporarily,  at 
least,  and  he  must  do  it  before  the  wedding.  The  longer  he 
could  keep  him  away  from  Stephanie,  the  better  would  be 
his  own  chance.  If  even  on  the  eve  of  the  wedding  the 
groom  could  disappear,  the  fact  would  tend  greatly  to  his 
ultimate  advantage,  provided  Beekman  were  away  long 
enough. 

He  concentrated  his  mind  on  this  proposition.  How  could 
he  cause  Derrick  Beekman  to  disappear  the  day  before  his 
wedding,  and  how,  having  spirited  him  away,  could  he  keep 
him  away  long  enough  to  make  that  disappearance  worth 


24  By  the  World  Forgot 

while  from  the  Harnash  point  of  view  ?  That  was  the  final 
form  of  the  problem  in  its  last  analysis.  How  was  he  to 
solve  it? 

He  could  have  Beekman  kidnapped,  and  hold  him  for 
ransom  in  some  lonely  place  in  the  country.  That  was  a 
solution  which  he  dismissed  almost  as  soon  as  he  formulated 
it.  The  tiling  was  impracticable.  He  would  have  to  trust 
too  many  people.  He  could  never  keep  him  long  in  con 
finement.  He  himself  would  probably  become  the  victim  of 
continuous  blackmail.  In  the  face  of  rewards  that  would  be 
offered,  his  employees  would  eventually  betray  him.  Sooner 
or  later,  unless  something  happened  to  Beekman,  he  would 
get  out.  Harnash  had  plenty  of  hardihood,  but  he  shivered 
at  the  thought  of  what  he  would  have  to  meet  when  Beekman 
came  for  an  accounting,  as  sooner  or  later  he  would.  He 
would  have  to  find  some  other  way.  What  way  ? 

Now  Harnash's  misery  was  further  increased  by  the  fact 
that  Beekman  had  cabled  him  to  go  ahead  with  the  prepara 
tions  for  the  wedding.  The  Beekman  yacht  had  broken 
down  in  Honolulu  Harbor  after  that  long  cruise,  and  instead 
of  following  his  telegram  straight  home,  there  had  been  a 
week  of  delay.  He  had  explained  the  situation  by  cables 
to  Harnash,  Stephanie,  and  her  father. 

After  the  yacht,  her  engines  pretty  well  strained  from 
the  year's  cruise,  had  been  put  in  fair  shape,  ten  days  had 
been  required  for  the  return  passage.  Beekman  had  some 
business  matters  to  attend  to  in  San  Francisco  and  he  did 
not  arrive  in  New  York  until  a  few  days  before  the  wedding, 
which  was  to  take  place  at  the  Cathedral  of  St.  John  the 
Divine,  the  Bishop  Suffragan  and  the  Dean  being  the 
officiating  clergymen  designate. 


Bill  Woywod  to  the  Rescue  25 

It  was  fortunate  in  one  sense  that  Beekman  had  been  so 
delayed,  for  there  was  so  much  for  him  to  do,  so  many 
people  for  him  to  see,  that  he  had  little  opportunity  for 
making  love  to  his  promised  bride,  and  he  had  no  chance  to 
discern  her  real  feelings  any  more  than  he  had  to  find 
out  Harnash's  position.  He  had,  indeed,  remarked  that 
Stephanie  looked  terribly  worn  and  strained,  and  that 
George  Harnash  was  haggard  and  spent  to  an  extraordinary 
degree ;  but  he  attributed  the  one  to  the  excitement  of  the 
marriage  and  the  other  to  the  fact  that  Harnash  had  been 
left  so  long  alone  to  bear  the  burden  of  responsibility  and 
decision  in  the  rapidly  increasing  brokerage  business. 

When  he  had  swept  his  unwilling  bride-to-be  to  his  heart 
and  kissed  her  boisterously,  he  had  told  her  that  he  would 
take  care  of  her  and  see  that  the  roses  were  brought  back 
to  her  cheeks  after  they  were  married;  and  after  he  had 
shaken  Harnash's  hand  vigorously  he  had  slapped  him  on 
the  back  and  declared  to  him  that  as  soon  as  the  honeymoon 
was  over  he  would  buckle  down  to  work  and  give  him  a  long 
vacation.  Neither  of  the  recipients  of  these  promises  was 
especially  enthusiastic  or  delighted,  but  in  his  joyous  breezy 
fashion  Beekman  neither  saw  nor  thought  anything  was 
amiss. 

Never  a  man  essayed  to  tread  the  devious  paths  of 
matrimony  with  a  more  confident  assurance  or  a  lighter 
heart.  Nothing  could  surpass  his  blindness. 

"You  see,"  said  Stephanie  in  a  last  surreptitious  inter 
view  with  Harnash,  "he  hasn't  the  least  suspicion.  He 
hugged  me  like  a  bear  and  kissed  me  like  a  battering  ram," 
she  explained  with  a  little  movement  of  her  shoulders  sin 
gularly  expressive  of  resentment,  and  even  more. 


26  By  the  World  Forgot 

"Damn  him,"  muttered  Harnash,  under  his  breath.  "He 
wrung  my  hand,  too,  as  if  I  were  his  best  friend." 

"Well,  you  are,  aren't  you?" 

"I  was,  I  am,  and  I'm  going  to  save  him  from  —  " 

"From  the  misfortune  of  marrying  me  ?" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  jest  under  the  circum 
stances." 

"George,"  said  the  girl,  "if  I  didn't  jest  I  should  die.  I 
don't  see  how  I  can  endure  it  as  it  is." 

"Stephanie,"  he  repeated,  lifting  his  right  hand  as  if 
making  an  oath  —  as,  indeed,  he  was  —  "I'm  going  to  take 
you  from  him  if  it  is  at  the  foot  of  the  altar." 

These  were  brave  words  with  back  of  them,  as  yet,  only 
an  intensity  of  purpose  and  a  determination,  but  no  practical 
plan.  It  was  Bill  Woywod  that  gave  the  practical  turn 
to  that  decision  on  the  part  of  Harnash. 

Now  George  Harnash  came  originally  from  a  little  down- 
east  town  on  the  Maine  coast.  That  it  was  his  birthplace 
was  not  its  only  claim  to  honor.  It  also  boasted  of  the 
nativity  of  Bill  Woywod.  The  two  had  been  boyhood 
friends.  Although  their  several  pursuits  had  separated 
them  widely,  the  queer  friendship  still  obtained  in  spite  of 
the  wide  and  ever-widening  difference  in  the  characters  and 
stations  of  the  two  men. 

Running  away  from  school,  Bill  Woywod  had  gone  down 
to  the  sea  as  his  ancestors  for  two  hundred  years  had  done 
before  him.  Left  to  himself,  Harnash  had  completed  his 
high  school  and  college  course  and  had  gone  down  to  New 
York  as  none  of  his  people  had  ever  done  in  all  the  family 
history.  Both  men  had  progressed.  Harnash  was  already 
well-to-do  and  approaching  brilliant  success.  He  had  thrust 


Bill  Woywod  to  the  Rescue  27 

his  feet  at  least  within  the  portals  of  society  and  was  holding 
open  the  door  which  he  would  force  widely  when  he  was  a 
little  stronger. 

Woywod  had  earned  a  master's  certificate  and  was  now  the 
first  mate,  technically  the  mate,  of  one  of  the  ships  of  the 
Inter-Oceanic  Trading  fleet,  in  line  for  first  promotion  to 
a  master.  Woywod  was  a  deep-water  sailor.  He  cared  little 
for  steam,  and  although  it  was  an  age  in  which  masts  and 
sails  were  being  withdrawn  from  the  seven  seas,  he  still 
affected  the  fast-disappearing  wind-jamming  branch  of  the 
ocean-carrying  trade. 

Indeed,  the  last  full-rigged  ship  had  been  paid  off  and 
laid  up  in  ordinary.  Just  because  it  was  the  last  wooden 
sailing  ship  of  the  fleet,  Maynard,  whose  fortune  had  been 
not  a  little  contributed  to  by  sailing  vessels  in  the  preceding 
century,  had  refrained  from  selling  her.  There  was  a  sen 
timental  streak  in  the  hard  old  captain  of  industry,  as  there 
is  in  most  men  who  achieve,  and  the  Susquehanna  had  not 
been  broken  up  or  otherwise  disposed  of.  On  the  contrary, 
every  care  had  been  taken  of  her. 

The  demands  of  the  great  war  brought  every  ocean- 
carrying  ship  into  service  again.  The  Su&quehanna  was 
refitted  and  commissioned.  A  retired  mariner  who  had  been 
more  or  less  a  failure  under  steam  but  whose  seamanship 
was  unquestioned  was  appointed  to  command.  Captain 
Peleg  Fish  was  one  of  those  old-time  sailors  to  whom  moral 
suasion  meant  little  or  nothing.  He  was  Gloucester  born, 
and  had  served  his  apprenticeship  in  the  fishing  fleet.  There 
after  he  had  been  mate  on  the  last  of  the  old  American 
clippers,  had  commanded  a  whaler  out  of  New  Bedford,  and 
knew  a  sailing  ship  from  truck  to  keelson. 


28  By  the  World  Forgot 

He  was  a  man  of  a  hard  heart  and  a  heavy  hand.  His 
courage  was  as  high  as  his  heart  was  hard  or  his  hand  was 
heavy.  He  was  also  a  driver.  He  drove  his  ship  and  he 
drove  his  men.  He  had  been  a  success  on  the  Susquelianna 
in  her  time,  and  because  of  that  he  had  been  able  to  get 
crews  and  keep  officers.  Quick  passages  in  a  well-found  ship, 
and  good  pay,  had  offset  his  proverbial  fierceness  and  bru 
tality.  He  was  now  an  old  man,  but  sailing  masters  were 
scarce.  Officers  and  men  were  scarce,  too,  on  account  of  the 
war,  and  although  the  Inter-Oceanic  Trading  Company  had 
dismissed  Captain  Fish  because  of  the  way  he  had  mis 
handled  the  steamer  to  which  they  transferred  him  when 
they  laid  up  the  Susquehanna,  yet  they  were  glad  to  call  him 
into  service  when  they  decided  again  to  make  use  of  that 
vessel. 

Grim  old  Captain  Fish  made  but  one  condition.  He  was 
glad  enough  to  get  back  to  the  sea  on  which  he  had  passed 
his  life  on  any  terms,  and  doubly  rej  oiced  that  he  could  once 
more  command  a  wooden  sailing  ship  instead  of  "an  iron 
pot  with  a  locomotive  in  her,"  as  he  designated  his  last 
vessel.  That  condition  was  that  he  should  have  Bill  Woywod 
for  mate.  The  two  had  sailed  together  before.  They  knew 
each  other,  liked  each  other,  worked  together  hand  and 
glove,  for  Bill  Woywod  was  a  man  of  the  same  type  as  the 
captain.  The  captain  was  getting  old,  too.  He  wanted  a 
stouter  arm  and  a  quicker  eye  at  his  disposal  than  his  own. 
Besides,  Bill  hated  steam  as  much  as  Fish  did.  He  was 
a  natural-born  sailor,  not  a  mechanic  and  engine  driver. 
Among  the  bucko  mates  of  the  past,  Bill  Woywod  would 
not  have  yielded  second  place  to  anybody.  They  had  to  give 
Woywod  a  master's  pay  to  get  him  to  ship,  but  once  having 


Bill  Woywod  to  the  Rescue  29 

agreed  to  do  that,  he  entered  upon  his  new  duties  with 
alacrity. 

The  Susquehanna  was  a  big  full-rigged  clipper  ship  of 
three  thousand  tons.  Given  a  favorable  wind,  she  could 
show  her  heels  to  many  a  tramp  steamer  or  lumbering 
freighter,  and  even  not  a  few  of  the  older  liners.  She  was 
carrying  arms  and  munitions  for  the  Russians  and  ran 
between  New  York  and  Vladivostok  through  the  Panama 
Canal. 

If  there  was  one  person  rough,  hard-bitten  Bill  Woywod 
had  an  abiding  affection  for,  it  was  George  Harnash.  When 
ever  his  ship  dropped  anchor  in  New  York  the  first  person 
— -and  about  the  only  respectable  person  —  he  visited  was 
his  boyhood  friend.  To  be  sure,  there  was  not  much  con 
geniality  between  them.  The  only  tie  that  bound  them 
was  that  boyhood  friendship,  but  both  of  them  were  men 
without  kith  or  kin,  and  they  somehow  clung  to  that  asso 
ciation.  Woywod  was  proud  of  his  friendship  with  the 
rising  young  broker,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  refreshment 
in  the  person  of  the  breezy  sailor  which  Harnash  greatly 
enjoyed,  especially  as  the  visits  of  the  seaman  were  not 
frequent  or  long  enough  to  pall  upon  the  New  Yorker. 

Harnash  usually  took  an  afternoon  and  night  off 
when  Woywod  arrived.  They  took  in  the  baseball  game 
at  the  Polo  Grounds,  dined  thereafter  at  some  table  d'hote 
resort  which  Harnash  would  never  have  affected  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  but  which  seemed  to  Woywod  the 
very  height  of  luxury.  Then  they  repaired  to  some  theatre, 
usually  one  of  the  high-kicking  variety  avowedly  designed 
for  the  tired  business  man,  which  was  extremely  congenial 
to  the  care-free  sailor ;  and  not  to  go  further  into  details  it 


30  By  the  World  Forgot 

may  be  alleged  that  they  had  a  good  time  together  until  far 
in  the  night  or  early  in  the  morning,  rather.  Harnash  was 
usually  not  a  little  ashamed  next  morning ;  Woywod,  never ! 
With  sturdy  independence  Woywod  would  alternate  being 
host  on  these  occasions.  On  land  and  out  of  his  element 
he  was  a  fairly  agreeable  companion  in  his  rough,  coarse 
way.  It  was  only  on  the  ship  that  he  became  a  brute.  In 
the  nature  of  things  the  devotion,  if  such  it  could  be  called, 
was  all  on  Woywod's  side.  It  was  an  aspiration  on  his 
part  and  a  condescension  on  the  part  of  Harnash,  however 
much  the  latter  strove  to  disguise  it. 

The  Susquehanna  had  been  loaded  to  her  capacity  and 
beyond  with  war  equipment  for  the  Russian  Government 
and  was  about  to  take  her  departure  from  New  York,  when 
Woywod,  who  had  been  prevented  before  by  the  duties 
imposed  by  the  necessity  of  getting  the  ship  ready  quickly 
for  her  next  long  voyage,  paid  his  annual  or  semi-annual 
visit  to  his  friend.  Now  these  visits  had  become  so  thor 
oughly  a  matter  of  custom  that  Woywod  had  established  the 
right  of  entrance.  None  of  the  clerks  in  the  outer  office 
would  have  thought  of  stopping  him,  and  although  Harnash 
was  very  strict  in  requiring  respect  for  the  sanctity  of  his 
private  office  Woywod  made  no  hesitation  about  entering  it 
unceremon  i  ously . 

Like  all  sailors,  he  moved  with  cat-like  softness  and 
quickness.  He  opened  the  door  noiselessly  and  surprised  his 
friend  seated  at  his  desk,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands  in  an 
attitude  of  the  deepest  de j  ection.  Friendship  has  a  discern 
ing  power  as  well  as  greater  passions. 

"Why,  George,  old  boy,"  began  Woywod,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  other's  shoulder,  and  that  touch  gave  Harnash 


Bill  Woywod  to  the  Rescue  31 

the  first  warning  that  he  was  not  alone,  "what's  the 
matter?" 

Harnash  looked  up  quickly,  rose  to  his  feet  as  he  recog 
nized  his  visitor,  and  grasped  him  by  the  hand  with  a  warmth 
he  had  not  shown  in  years. 

"Bill,"  he  explained,  "I'm  in  the  deepest  trouble  that 
ever  fell  on  a  man,  and  you  come  like  an  angel  in  time  to 
help  me." 

Harnash  must  have  meant  a  dark  angel,  but  Woywod 
knew  nothing  of  that. 

"What  is  it,  old  man?"  he  asked.  "If  it's  money  you're 
needin'  I  got  a  shot  or  two  in  the  locker  an'  —  " 

"No,  it's  not  money.    I'm  making  more  than  ever." 

"Been  buckin'  up  agin  the  law  an'  want  a  free  passage  to 
safety?  Well,  me  an'  old  man  Fish  is  as  thick  as  peas  in  a 
pod,  an'  the  Susquehanna's  at  your  service." 

"It's  not  that,  either." 

"What  in  blazes  is  it,  then  ?" 

"A  woman." 

"Look  here,  George,"  said  Woywod,  "I'm  about  as  rough 
as  they  make  'em  an'  there  ain't  no  man  as  ever  sailed  with 
me  that  won't  endorse  that  there  statement,  but  I  never  done 
no  harm  to  no  woman  an'  if  you've  been  —  " 

"You're  on  the  wrong  tack  again,  Bill,"  interposed  Har 
nash,  smiling.  "It's  a  woman  I  love  and  who  loves  me." 

"Well,  I  don't  reckon  I  can  help  you  there  unless  you 
want  me  to  be  best  man  at  the  weddin'." 

That  suggestion  struck  Harnash  as  intensely  comical,  as 
it  well  might,  but  he  hastened  to  add  diplomatically : 

"I  couldn't  wish  a  better  man  if  there  were  going  to  be 
any  wedding,  but  —  " 


32  By  the  World  Forgot 

"Do  you  love  a  married  woman?"  asked  Woywod,  going 
directly  to  the  point. 

"Not  exactly." 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"I'll  explain  if  you'll  only  give  me  a  chance,"  answered 
Harnash,  and  in  as  few  words  as  possible  he  put  the  sailor 
in  possession  of  the  facts. 

"So  you  want  to  get  rid  of  the  man,  do  you?"  he  asked, 
when  the  story  had  been  told. 

"Yes.  I  don't  want  him  harmed.  I  just  want  him  out  of 
the  way." 

"And  you  think  that  I  —  " 

"If  you  can't  help  me  I  don't  know  who  can." 

"Look  here,  George,"  said  Woywod,  earnestly.  "Is  this 
square  an'  above  board  ?  Are  you  givin'  me  the  truth  ?" 

"I  aw." 

"An*  the  gal  loves  you  an'  you  love  her  an'  she  don't 
love  this  other  chap  which  she  wants  to  git  out  of  marryin' 
him?" 

"Right." 

"Then  it's  easy." 

"I  thought  you'd  find  a  way." 

"It  don't  take  much  schemin'  for  that.  Just  p'int  him 
out  to  me  an'  git  him  down  on  the  river  front  some  dark 
night  where  I  can  git  a  hold  of  him,  with  a  few  drinks  in 
him,  an'  that'll  be  all  there  is  to  it.  You  won't  hear  from 
him  until  the  Swsquehanna  gits  to  Vladivostok,  an'  mebbe 
not  then." 

"I  don't  want  any  harm  to  come  to  him." 

"In  course  not.  I'll  use  him  jest  as  gentle  as  I  do  any 
man  on  the  ship." 


Bill  Woywod  to  the  Rescue  33 

"And  he  must  never  know  that  I  —  " 

"He  won't  know  nothin'.  When  a  man  gits  drunk  enough 
he  can't  tell  what  happens.  You  might  tell  yer  lady  friend 
that  this  is  a  little  weddin'  present  I'm  makin'  to  my  oldest 
an*  best  friend,  that  is,  if  you  git  spliced  afore  I  gits  back 
from  Vladivostok." 

"I'll  surely  let  her  know  your  part  of  the  transaction. 
When  does  the  Susquehanna  sail?" 

"Thursday  morning.  Tide  turns  at  two  o'clock.  We'll 
git  out  about  four." 

"You  don't  touch  anywhere?" 

"Not  a  place  unless  we're  druv  to  it  by  bad  weather  or 
some  accident.  But  if  we  do  git  hold  of  a  cable  I'll  see  that 
he  stays  safe  aboard,  in  case,  which  ain't  likely,  we're 
obliged  to  drop  anchor  in  any  civilized  port." 

"Have  you  got  a  wireless  aboard?" 

"Nary  wireless.  When  we  take  our  departure  from  Fire 
Island  it's  up  to  Cap'n  Fish  an'  me  an'  the  rest  of  us  to 
bring  her  in." 

"There's  no  danger?" 

"Well,  there's  always  danger  in  sailin'  the  seas,  but  no 
body  never  thinks  nothin'  about  it  with  a  good  ship,  well 
officered,  well  manned  an'  well  found.  It's  a  damn  sight 
safer  than  the  streets  of  New  York  with  all  them  automobiles 
runnin'  on  the  wind  an'  by  the  wind  an'  across  the  wind  an' 
every  other  way  at  the  same  time.  It's  as  much  as  a  man's 
life  is  worth  to  try  to  navigate  a  street.  Never  mind  the 
danger.  We've  got  to  settle  a  few  little  details  an'  then  the 
thing  bein'  off  your  mind  we  can  have  a  royal  good  time. 
You  ain't  got  anything  on  tonight?" 

"No  engagement  that  I  can't  break.     If  it  had  been 


By  the  World  Forgot 


tomorrow,  Wednesday,  it  would  have  been  different  because 
that  is  the  night  my  friend  —  " 

"Oh,  he's  a  friend  of  yourn.     Why  don't  you  tell  — " 

"No  use,  Bill ;  this  is  the  only  way.  But  because  he  is  a 
friend  of  mine  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  him  to  come  to  any 
harm  or  to  get  any  bad  treatment." 

"If  he  buckles  down  to  work  an'  accepts  the  situation  he 
won't  get  no  bad  treatment  from  me." 

This  was  perfectly  honest,  for  in  the  brutal  school  in 
which  he  had  been  trained  what  he  meted  out  to  his  men 
was  what  he  had  been  taught  was  right  and  what  he  believed 
they  indeed  expected,  without  which  indeed  discipline  could 
not  be  maintained  and  the  work  of  the  ship  properly  done. 
Harnash  had  some  doubts  as  to  Beekman's  ability  to  buckle 
down  or  willingness,  rather,  but  he  had  to  risk  something. 
The  two  friends  put  their  heads  together  and  the  minor 
details  were  easily  arranged. 

"Better  tell  the  gal  it's  goin'  to  be  all  right,  hadn't  you?" 
suggested  Woywod. 

"No,"  said  Harnash,  with  a  truer  appreciation  of  the  sit 
uation.  "I  think  I'll  surprise  her." 

"It'll  be  a  surprise,  all  right,"  laughed  the  big  sailor. 
"Well,  you  do  your  part  an'  I'll  do  mine  an'  if  the  man  does 
his  part  he'll  come  back  to  find  you  married  an'  he  can  make 
the  best  of  it.  By  the  way,  what's  his  name?" 

"Is  it  necessary  that  I  should  tell  you  ?" 

"No,  'tain't  necessary  an'  perhaps  on  the  whole  it  wouldn't 
be  best.  If  I  don't  know  his  name  I  can  call  him  a  damn 
liar  whatever  he  says  it  is,  with  a  clear  conscience,"  went  on 
the  sailor  blithely  and  guilelessly,  as  if  conscience  really 
mattered  to  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  BACHELOR'S  DINNER  AND  ITS  ENDING 

BACHELORS'  dinners,  masculine  pre-nuptial  festivities, 
that  is,  like  everything  else  with  which  poor  humanity 
deals,  may  roughly  be  divided  into  two  kinds,  which  fall 
under  the  generic  names  of  good  or  bad.  Of  course,  in  prac 
tice,  as  in  life,  goodness  often  degenerates  into  badness  and 
badness  is  sometimes  lifted  into  goodness.  Such  is  the  per 
versity  of  human  nature  even  at  its  best  that  when  the  dec 
laration  is  made  that  Beekman's  bachelor  dinner  was  a  good 
one  all  interest  in  it  is  immediately  lost!  Bad  is  so  much 
more  attractive  in  literature  and  in  life.  Perhaps  it  may 
be  said  that  while  the  dinner  had  not  descended  to  the  un 
bridled  license  which  sometimes  characterized  such  affairs, 
and  while  there  were  no  ladies  present  in  various  stages  of 
—  shall  it  be  said  dress  or  undress  —  nevertheless,  the  young 
fellows  who  were  present  had  a  delightful  time  which  if  not  as 
innocent  as  the  festivities  of  Stephanie's  final  entertainment 
to  her  lovely  attendants,  was  nevertheless  quite  what  might 
have  been  expected  from  clean,  healthy,  well-bred  young 
Americans  with  a  reasonable  amount  of  restraint. 

The  dinner  was  chosen  with  fine  discrimination  and  epi 
curean  taste;  it  was  cooked  by  the  best  chef,  served  at  the 
most  exclusive  club  and  accompanied  by  wines  with  which 
even  the  most  captious  bon  vivant  could  not  take  issue. 
Perhaps  some  of  the  youngsters  drank  more  than  was  good 

35 


36  By  the  World  Forgot 

for  them  —  which  instantly  raises  the  question,  how  much,  or 
how  little,  if  any,  is  good  for  a  young  man?  They  broke 
up  at  a  decently  early  hour  in  the  morning  in  much  better 
condition  than  might  have  been  expected. 

Beekman  was  one  of  the  most  temperate  of  men.  He 
took  pride  in  his  athletic  prowess  and  he  still  kept  himself 
in  fine  physical  trim.  A  very  occasional  glass  of  wine 
usually  limited  his  indulgence.  In  this  instance,  however, 
under  conditions  so  unusual,  he  had  partaken  so  much  more 
freely  than  was  his  wont  —  his  course  being  pardonable 
or  otherwise  in  accordance  with  the  viewpoint  —  that  he 
was  not  altogether  himself.  This  was  not  much  more  due 
to  the  plan  of  Harnash  than  to  the  solicitations  of  the  other 
friends  who  found  nothing  so  pleasant  on  that  occasion  as 
drinking  to  his  health,  and  generally  in  bumpers.  Indeed, 
not  once  but  many  times  and  oft  around  the  board  they 
pledged  him  and  were  pledged  in  return. 

At  the  insistence  of  Harnash,  Beekman  had  arranged  to 
spend  the  night  at  the  former's  apartment  in  Washington 
Square.  Harnash  made  the  point  that  he  was  expected  to 
look  after  him  and  produce  him  the  next  morning  in  the  best 
trim,  therefore  he  did  not  wish  him  to  get  out  of  his  sight. 
Accordingly,  Beekman  had  dismissed  his  own  car  and  when 
the  party  broke  up  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  he 
went  away  with  Harnash  in  the  latter's  limousine. 

At  somebody's  suggestion  —  Beekman  could  never  re 
member  whose,  whether  it  was  his  or  his  friend's  —  they 
stopped  at  several  places  on  the  way  down  town  for  further 
liquid  refreshment  of  which  Beekman  partook  liberally, 
Harnash  sparingly  or  not  at  all.  It  was  not  difficult  for  an 
adroit  man  like  Harnash,  confronted  by  a  rather  befuddled 


A  Bachelor's  Dinner  and  Its  Ending       37 

man  like  Beekman,  to  introduce  the  infallible  knock-out 
drops,  with  which  he  had  been  provided  by  Woywod,  into  the 
liquor. 

As  they  crossed  Twenty-third  Street  on  their  way  down 
town  Harnash  stopped  the  car.  His  chauffeur  lived  on  East 
Twenty-third  Street,  and  Harnash  dismissed  him,  saying  he 
would  drive  the  car  down  to  his  private  garage  back  of  his 
residence  in  Washington  Mews  himself.  There  was  noth 
ing  unusual  in  this;  the  chauffeur  subsequently  testified 
that  he  had  received  the  same  thoughtful  consideration  from 
his  employer  on  many  previous  occasions.  When  the  chauf 
feur  left  the  car,  the  drug  had  not  yet  got  in  its  deadly 
work.  Beekman  was  still  all  right  apparently  and  the 
chauffeur  subsequently  testified  that  when  Beekman  bade 
him  good-night  he  noticed  nothing  strikingly  unusual. 
Beekman  seemed  to  be  himself,  although  the  chauffeur  could 
see  that  he  was  slightly  under  the  influence  of  wine. 

By  the  time  the  car,  driven  by  Harnash  with  considerable 
ostentation  and  as  much  notice  as  possible,  for  he  wanted 
to  attract  attention  to  his  arrival,  reached  the  garage,  Beek 
man  was  absolutely  unconscious  on  the  floor  of  the  tonneau, 
to  which  he  had  fallen.  Harnash  ran  the  car  into  the 
garage,  closed  the  doors  with  a  bang,  and  ran  across  the 
intervening  court  rapidly  and  noisily  and  up  to  his  own 
apartments.  He  was  ordinarily  a  considerate  young  man, 
and  coming  in  at  that  hour  he  would  have  made  as  little  noise 
as  possible,  but  on  this  occasion  his  conduct  was  different. 
He  stumbled  on  the  stairs,  banged  the  door  behind  him,  fell 
over  a  chair  in  his  room,  swore  audibly.  People  subse 
quently  testified  that  they  had  heard  him  coming  in  and 
one  even  saw  him,  quite  alone. 


38  By  the  World  Forgot 

Without  pausing  an  unnecessary  moment  in  the  room  he 
made  his  exit  from  his  apartment  by  means  of  the  fire  escape, 
and  this  time  not  a  cat  could  have  moved  more  silently. 
Fortunately,  the  back  of  the  house  was  in  deep  shadow  and 
there  were  no  lights  adjacent.  The  shadow  of  the  fence 
also  served  him.  He  reentered  the  garage,  having  taken 
precaution  the  day  before  secretly  to  oil  the  doors.  He 
dragged  his  unfortunate  friend  and  companion  from  the 
limousine,  stripped  him  of  his  overcoat  and  automobile  cap, 
which  he  put  on  himself.  The  coat  he  had  previously  worn 
had  differed  in  every  particular  from  that  of  Beekman.  He 
removed  Beekman's  watch  and  other  j  ewelry  and  his  money, 
of  which  he  carried  a  considerable  sum.  These  articles  he 
stowed  away  in  his  private  locker  to  which  his  chauffeur 
did  not  have  a  key.  He  could  remove  them  to  his  office  safe 
at  his  leisure.  In  Beekman's  vest  pocket  he  put  a  large  roll 
of  his  own  money  —  he  could  not  steal,  though  abduction 
was  his  intent  —  and  then  he  lifted  him  to  the  floor  of  his 
runabout  which  stood  in  the  garage  by  the  side  of  the 
limousine. 

He  next  removed  the  number  plates  from  the  car,  re 
placed  them  with  false  ones,  and  ran  the  car  out  of  the 
garage  by  hand.  Every  part  of  it  had  been  oiled  so  that  its 
movement  was  absolutely  noiseless.  Then  he  shoved  the 
car  down  the  street,  which  was  now  deserted,  until  he  got 
some  distance  away  from  the  garage.  The  only  really  risky 
part  of  the  enterprise  was  at  that  moment.  Fortune  favored 
him  —  or  not,  as  the  case  may  be.  At  any  rate,  no  one 
appeared.  It  was  after  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the 
street  was  deserted,  and  there  was  not  a  policeman  in  sight. 
He  climbed  into  the  car,  started  it,  and  drove  off. 


'A  Bachelor's  Dinner  and  Its  Ending       39 

He  proceeded  cautiously  at  first,  seeking  unfrequented 
and  narrow  streets  until  he  got  far  enough  from  the  garage 
to  change  his  going  to  suit  his  purpose.  After  a  time  he 
sought  the  broader  streets  and  passed  several  people,  mostly 
police  officers,  but  them  he  now  took  no  care  to  avoid.  He 
drove  near  them  so  that  they  would  notice  his  general  build, 
which  was  that  of  his  friend,  and  the  clothes  he  wore,  which 
were  those  of  his  friend,  and  indeed  they  testified  afterward 
that  they  had  seen  a  man  dressed  as  and  looking  like  Beek- 
man,  exactly  as  he  had  anticipated.  He  drove  past  them 
rapidly  so  as  not  to  give  them  time  for  too  close  a  scrutiny. 
Also  he  doubled  on  his  trail  often. 

When  he  reached  a  dark,  lonely,  and  unfrequented  block 
near  South  Water  Street  he  drew  up  before  the  door  of  a 
dimly  lighted,  forbidding  looking  building,  the  sign  on 
which  indicated  that  it  was  a  sailors'  boarding  house.  He 
got  out  of  the  car,  taking  precaution  to  slip  on  a  false 
mustache  and  beard  with  which  he  had  provided  himself, 
and  tapped  on  a  door  in  a  certain  way  which  had  been  indi 
cated  to  him.  The  door  was  at  once  opened  by  a  burly, 
rough,  villainous  looking  individual,  the  boarding  house 
master,  obviously  a  crimp  of  the  worst  class. 

"What  d'ye  want?"  he  growled  out,  scrutinizing  the 
newcomer  by  the  aid  of  a  gas  jet  burning  inside  the  dirty, 
reeking  hall,  whose  feeble  light  he  supplemented  by  a  flash 
from  an  electric  torch  which  really  revealed  little,  since 
Harnash  carefully  concealed  his  already  disguised  face. 

"I  have  something  for  Mr.  Woywod." 

"The  mate  of  the  Susquehanna?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  he  told  me  to  receive  an'  deliver  what  you  got." 


40 


"That  was  our  agreement,"  said  Harnash,  the  little  dia 
logue  convincing  each  man  that  no  doubt  was  to  be  enter 
tained  of  the  other. 

"Well,  where's  the  goods  ?" 

"In  the  car." 

"Fetch  him  in." 

"He's  rather  heavy.    Perhaps  you'll  give  me  a  hand." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  answered  the  man,  putting  his  electric 
torch  in  his  pocket. 

The  two  went  to  the  car  and  the  man  easily  picked  up  the 
unconscious  Beekman  and  unaided  carried  him  within  the 
door.  Harnash  followed.  He  observed  the  man  glanced 
at  the  numbers  on  the  car  and  was  glad  that  he  had  taken 
the  precaution  to  change  them.  The  crimp  now  dropped 
the  unconscious  Beekman  in  the  hallway  and  turned  to 
Harnash.  He  found  the  latter  standing  quietly,  but  with 
an  automatic  pistol  in  his  hand. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me,"  said  the  man. 

"I'm  not,"  answered  Harnash.  He  was  ghastly  pale  and 
extremely  nervous,  but  not  from  fear  of  the  crimp.  "This 
is  just  a  matter  of  precaution." 

"Well,  what  do  I  git  out  of  this  yere  job?"  asked  the 
man. 

"I  understand  Mr.  Woywod  will  settle  with  you  for  that." 

"Well,  he  does,  but  what  I  gits  from  him  is  the  price  of 
a  foremast  hand,  an'  'tain't  enough." 

The  crimp  bent  over  Beekman,  flashed  the  light  on  him, 
and  pulled  out  the  roll  of  bills,  which  he  quickly  counted. 

"It's  fair,  but  I'd  ought  to  git  more.  This  here's  a  swell 
job ;  look  at  them  clo'es." 

"They're  yours  also,  if  you  wish." 


A  Bachelor's  Dinner  and  Its  Ending       41 

"That's  somethin',  but  —  " 

"It's  all  you'll  get,"  said  Harnash,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  door. 

The  man  lifted  the  torch.     Harnash  lifted  the  pistol. 

"Just  put  that  torch  back  in  your  pocket,"  he  said. 

"You're  a  cool  one,"  laughed  the  man,  but  he  obeyed 
the  order. 

"If  it  is  learned  tomorrow  that  this  man  has  disappeared 
you'll  receive  through  the  United  States  mail  in  a  plain 
envelope  a  hundred  dollar  bill.  If  not,  you  get  nothing." 

"Suppose  I  croak  him,  how'd  you  know  anything  about 
it?" 

"Mr.  Woywod  has  arranged  to  inform  me,  and  he  will 
also  put  your  part  of  the  transaction  on  record,  so  if  you 
say  a  word  you'll  be  laid  by  the  heels  and  get  nothing  for 
your  pains.  There  are  a  number  of  things  against  you, 
I'm  told.  The  police  would  be  most  happy  to  get  you,  I 
know.  Just  bear  that  in  mind." 

The  man  nodded.  He  knew  when  the  cards  were  stacked 
against  him.  After  all,  this  did  not  greatly  differ  from  an 
ordinary  job  and  he  was  getting,  for  him,  very  well  paid 
for  his  part  of  it. 

"I  got  relations  with  Woywod  an'  lots  of  other  seafarin* 
men.  My  business  would  be  ruined  if  I  played  tricks  on  'em. 
You  can  trust  me  to  keep  quiet." 

"I  thought  so,"  answered  Harnash.     "Good-night." 

He  opened  the  door,  stepped  outside,  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  and  waited  a  moment,  but  the  crimp  made  no 
effort  to  follow  him.  After  all,  it  was  only  an  every  day 
matter  with  him.  Harnash  next  drove  the  car  down  the 
street  near  one  of  the  wharves,  where  he  met  Woywod. 


42  By  the  World  Forgot 

"Is  it  all  right,  George?"  asked  the  latter. 

"All  right,  Bill.  He's  at  the  place  you  told  me  to  leave 
him.  Can  you  keep  the  crimp's  mouth  shut?" 

"Trust  me  for  that,"  said  Woywod  confidently.  "He's 
mixed  up  in  too  many  shady  transactions  to  give  anybody 
any  information." 

"I'll  never  forget  what  you've  done  for  me,"  said  Har- 
nash.  "Remember,  use  him  well." 

"No  fear,"  laughed  his  friend  as  the  two  shook  hands 
and  parted. 

Then  Harnash  drove  up  the  street,  waited  until  he  came 
to  a  dark  alley,  turned  into  it,  unobserved,  got  out  of  the 
car,  put  Beekman's  coat  and  hat  into  it,  donned  his  own 
overcoat  and  cap,  which  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  still 
wearing  the  false  mustache  and  beard  changed  the  numbers 
on  the  car,  started  it,  and  let  it  wreck  itself  against  the 
nearest  water  hydrant. 

It  was  a  long  walk  up  town,  even  to  Washington  Square, 
and  he  had  to  go  very  circumspectly  because  he  did  not  now 
wish  to  be  seen  by  anyone.  Again  fortune  favored  him.  He 
gained  the  garage,  crossed  the  court,  mounted  the  fire  escape 
to  his  rooms,  and  sank  down,  utterly  exhausted  but 
triumphant. 

His  defense  was  absolutely  impregnable.  No  one  could 
controvert  his  story.  He  rehearsed  it.  He  had  come  home 
with  Beekman  after  the  dinner  had  terminated.  They  had 
had  one  or  two  drinks  on  the  way.  They  had  dismissed  the 
chauffeur  at  Twenty-third  Street.  When  they  reached  the 
garage  Beekman,  moved  by  some  sudden  whim,  had  insisted 
upon  going  back  to  his  own  apartment  up  town  in  Harnash's 
little  roadster.  He  had  been  drinking,  of  course.  He  was 


'A  Bachelor's  Dinner  and  Its  Ending       43 

not  altogether  in  possession  of  his  normal  faculties,  but 
Harnash  was  in  the  same  condition  and  therefore  he  had 
not  been  too  insistent.  Beekman  was  as  capable  of  driving 
the  car  as  Harnash  had  just  showed  himself  to  be.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  do  to  prevent  Beekman  from  going 
away.  He  could  not  even  remember,  when  he  was  questioned, 
whether  he  had  tried  it  or  not.  At  any  rate,  Beekman  had 
gone  away  in  the  roadster  and  Harnash  had  gone  to  bed. 
So  dwellers  in  the  building  who  heard  him  come  in  testified. 
One  who  happened  to  go  to  the  window  even  had  seen  him 
come  in.  No  one  had  seen  or  heard  him  go  out.  Harnash 
swore  that  he  had  not  left  the  apartment  until  the  next 
morning. 

Beekman,  or  a  man  dressed  as  he  was  known  to  be  dressed, 
had  been  seen  by  the  police  officers  and  others  between  three 
or  four  in  the  morning,  driving  through  the  lower  part  of 
the  city  in  a  small  car  the  number  of  which  no  one  had  seen. 
What  he  was  doing  in  that  section  of  the  city  no  one  could 
imagine.  During  the  course  of  the  morning  Harnash's  car 
was  found,  badly  smashed  from  a  collision,  lying  on  its  side 
in  a  wretched  alley  off  South  Water  Street.  Beekman's 
overcoat  and  cap  were  in  the  car  and  that  was  all  there  was 
to  it. 

No  matter  what  suspicions  the  crimp  might  have  enter 
tained,  he  kept  his  mouth  shut  and  received  the  day  after 
the  one  hundred  dollar  bill  in  an  unmarked  envelope  which 
had  been  mailed  at  the  general  postoffice  in  the  afternoon. 
Even  if  he  had  spoken,  he  could  not  have  thrown  much  light 
on  the  situation.  Not  even  the  reward  which  was  offered 
could  tempt  him.  His  business  demanded  secrecy,  abso 
lutely  and  inviolable,  and  too  many  men  knew  too  much 


44  By  the  World  Forgot 

about  him,  which  rendered  it  unsafe  for  him  to  open  his 
head.  He  would  not  kill  the  goose  that  laid  the  golden  egg 
for  him  by  making  further  business  on  the  same  lines  impos 
sible.  He  really  knew  nothing,  anyway. 

The  secret  was  shared  between  two  men,  Woywod  on  the 
sea  and  out  of  communication  with  New  York,  and  Harnash 
himself.  So  long  as  they  kept  quiet  no  one  would  ever 
know.  Even  Beekman  himself  could  not  solve  the  mystery 
when  he  returned  to  New  York.  It  was  most  ingeniously 
planned  and  most  brilliantly  carried  out.  Harnash  con 
gratulated  himself.  Stephanie  Maynard  would  certainly 
be  his  long  before  Beekman  could  prevent  it.  Still,  George 
Harnash  was  by  no  means  so  happy  in  the  present  state  of 
affairs  as  he  had  planned  and  hoped  to  be.  And  his  trials 
were  not  over.  He  had  to  meet  Stephanie,  the  wedding 
party,  old  John  Maynard,  the  public  press,  and  the  public 
—  what  would  the  day  bring  forth? 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   WEDDING    THAT   WAS    NOT 

QTEPHANIE  MAYNARD  had  passed  a  sleepless  night. 
^-J  Her  love  for  George  Harnash  grew  stronger  and  her 
abhorrence  of  the  marriage  increased  in  the  same  degree  as 
the  hour  drew  nearer.  Too  late  she  repented  of  her  deter 
mination.  She  wondered  why  she  had  not  allowed  Harnash 
to  take  her  away  and  end  it  all.  What,  after  all,  were 
her  father's  wishes,  or  her  own  promises,  or  the  worldly 
advantages  they  would  gain,  or  anything  else,  compared 
to  love? 

Harnash  had  sent  word  to  her  the  day  before  that  she 
was  not  to  give  up  hope,  that  something  would  happen 
surely,  but  now  the  last  minute  was  at  hand  and  nothing 
had  happened.  A  dozen  times  she  started  to  call  her  lover 
on  the  telephone  and  a  dozen  times  she  refrained.  Finally 
the  hour  arrived  when  the  victim  must  be  garlanded  for  the 
sacrifice.  At  least,  that  is  the  way  she  regarded  it. 

She  had  not  heard  a  word  from  her  husband-to-be  during 
the  morning.  Under  other  circumstances  that  would  have 
alarmed  her,  but  as  it  was  she  was  only  relieved.  The  wed 
ding  party  was  assembled  at  the  brand  new  Maynard  man 
sion  on  upper  Fifth  Avenue.  Two  of  the  attendants  were 
school  friends  from  other  cities  and  they  were  guests  at  the 
house.  The  wedding  was  to  be  followed  by  a  breakfast  and 
a  great  reception  which  the  Maynard  money  and  the  Beek- 

45 


46  By  the  World  Forgot 

man  position  was  to  make  the  most  wonderful  affair  of  the 
kind  that  had  ever  been  given  in  New  York. 

With  the  publicity  which  modern  society  courts  and  wel 
comes,  while  it  pretends  to  deprecate  it,  the  papers  had 
published  reams  about  the  most  private  details  of  the  engage 
ment,  even  to  descriptions  and  pictures  of  the  most  intimate 
under-linen  of  the  bride.  Presents  of  fabulous  value,  which 
lost  nothing  in  their  description  by  perfervid  pens,  were 
under  constant  guard  in  the  mansion.  Details  of  police  kept 
back  swarms  of  unaccredited  reporters  and  adventurous 
sightseers.  On  the  morning  of  the  wedding  day  the  street 
before  the  Cathedral  was  packed  with  the  vulgarly  curious 
long  before  eleven  o'clock.  The  wedding  was  to  be  sol 
emnized  at  high  noon,  and  was  to  be  the  greatest  social 
event  which  had  excited  easily  aroused  and  intensely  curious 
New  York  for  a  year  or  more. 

The  newer  members  of  the  exclusive  social  circle  frankly 
en j  oyed  it.  And  such  is  the  contagion  of  degeneration  that 
the  older  members,  while  they  affected  disdain  and  annoy 
ance,  enjoyed  it  too.  The  newspapers  had  played  it  up 
tremendously,  and  the  affair  had  even  achieved  the  signal 
triumph  of  a  veiled  but  well  understood  cartoon  by  F.  Foster 
Lincoln,  the  scourge  and  satirist  of  high  society,  in  a  recent 
number  of  Life. 

Everything  was  ready.  The  most  famous  caterer  in  New 
York  had  prepared  the  most  sumptuous  wedding  breakfast. 
The  most  exclusive  florist  had  decorated  the  church  and 
residence.  Society  had  put  on  its  best  clothes,  slightly 
deploring  the  fact  that  as  it  was  to  be  a  noon  wedding 
its  blooming  would  be  somewhat  limited  thereby.  More 
tickets  had  been  issued  to  the  Cathedral  than  even  that  mag" 


The  Wedding  That  Was  Not 47 

nificent  edifice  could  hold  and  it  was  filled  to  its  capacity  so 
soon  as  the  doors  were  opened.  The  famous  choir  was  in 
attendance  to  render  a  musical  program  of  extraordinary 
beauty  and  appropriateness. 

As  it  approached  the  hour  of  mid-day  the  excitement 
was  intense.  Women  in  the  crowd  were  crushed,  many 
fainted.  Riot  calls  had  to  be  sent  out  and  the  already 
strong  detachment  of  police  supplemented  by  reserves.  Thus 
is  the  holy  state  of  matrimony  entered  into  among  the  busy 
rich.  With  the  idle  poor  it  is,  fortunately,  a  simpler  affair. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Derrick  Beekman  and  George 
Harnash  should  present  themselves  at  the  Maynard  man 
sion  not  later  than  eleven  o'clock.  From  there  they  would 
drive  to  the  Cathedral  in  plenty  of  time  to  receive  the  wed 
ding  party  at  the  chancel  steps.  At  eleven  o'clock  a  big 
motor  forced  its  way  through  the  crowd  and  drew  up  before 
the  door.  From  it  descended  George  Harnash  alone. 

That  young  man  showed  the  effect  of  the  night  he  had 
passed.  He  was  excessively  nervous  and  as  gray  as  the 
gloves  he  carried  in  his  hands.  He  was  admitted  at  once 
and  ushered  into  the  drawing  room,  which  was  filled  with  a 
dozen  young  ladies  in  raiment  which  even  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory  might  have  envied,  who  were  to  make  up  the  wedding 
party.  There  also  had  just  arrived  the  young  gentlemen 
who  were  to  accompany  them,  who  had  all  been  at  the 
bachelor  dinner.  None  of  them  exhibited  any  evidence  of 
unusual  dissipation.  They  had  slept  late  and  were  in 
excellent  condition. 

"George,  alone !"  cried  young  Van  Brunt,  who  was  next 
in  importance  to  the  best  man,  as  Harnash  entered  the 
room. 


48  By  the  World  Forgot 

"Where's  Beekman?"  asked  Harnash  apparently  in  great 
surprise,  as  he  glanced  at  the  little  group. 

"Not  here.  You  were  to  bring  him.  It's  time  for  us  to 
get  up  to  the  Cathedral  anyway.  I'll  bet  the  people  are 
clamoring  at  the  doors  now." 

"They  weren't  to  be  opened  till  eleven-fifteen,"  said 
Grant,  one  of  the  fittest  members  of  the  party.  "It's  only 
eleven  now.  We've  plenty  of  time." 

"Well,  you  better  beat  it  up  now,  then.  Beekman  will 
be  here  in  a  minute,  I'm  sure,"  said  Harnash.  "We'll  follow 
you  in  half  an  hour." 

As  the  young  men  who  were  to  usher  left  the  room  the 
girls  fell  upon  Harnash. 

"Mr.  Harnash,"  said  Josephine  Treadway,  who  was  the 
maid-of-honor,  "will  you  please  tell  us  where  Derrick 
Beekman  is,  and  why  you  didn't  bring  him  along?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Harnash.     "As  a  matter  of  fact  I  — " 

"You'll  tell  me,  certainly,"  interposed  the  voice  that  he 
loved. 

He  turned  and  found  that  Stephanie,  having  completed 
her  toilet,  had  descended  the  stair  and  entered  the  room. 
She  was  whiter  than  Harnash  himself,  but  her  lack  of  color 
was  infinitely  becoming  to  her  in  her  sumptuous  bridal 
robes,  and  the  adoring  young  man  decided  then  and  there 
that  whatever  happened  she  was  worth  it. 

"Mr.  Beekman,"  continued  the  girl,  "was  to  be  here  at 
eleven  o'clock  with  you.  It's  after  that  now  and  you're 
here  alone.  Where  is  he?  Why  didn't  you  bring  him?" 

"Miss  Maynard,"  said  Harnash  formally,  and  in  spite  of 
himself  he  could  not  prevent  his  lip  from  trembling,  "I 
don't  know  where  he  is." 


The  Wedding  That  Was  Not 49 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  really  astonished,  as  the 
whole  assembly  broke  into  exclamations.  Had  Harnash 
accomplished  the  impossible,  as  he  had  threatened? 

"I  can't  find  him,"  went  on  Harnash.  He  could  scarcely 
sustain  Stephanie's  direct  and  piercing  gaze.  He  forced 
himself  to  look  at  her,  however.  "I  don't  know  where  he 
is,"  he  repeated. 

"But  have  you  searched?" 

"Everywhere.  I  called  up  his  apartment  on  Park  Avenue 
at  ten  o'clock.  They  said  he  wasn't  there  and  hadn't  been 
there  all  night.  I  started  my  man  out  at  once  in  a  taxicab, 
jumped  into  my  own  car,  and  I've  been  everywhere  —  the 
office,  his  clubs  —  I've  even  had  my  secretary  and  clerks  tele 
phone  all  the  hotels  on  the  long  chance  that  he  might  be 
at  one  of  them." 

"And  you  haven't  found  a  trace  of  him?  George  Har 
nash — "  began  Stephanie,  but  Harnash  was  too  quick 
for  her ;  he  did  not  allow  her  to  finish. 

"You  will  forgive  me,"  he  went  on;  "I  did  even  more 
than  that  in  my  alarm.  I  finally  notified  the  police  on  the 
chance  that  he  might  have  been  er  —  er  —  brought  in." 

He  shot  a  warning  look  at  Stephanie  that  checked  further 
inquiries  from  her. 

"Why  should  he  be  brought  in  ?"  asked  Josephine  Tread- 
way,  who  had  no  reason  for  not  asking  the  question. 

"Why,  you  see,"  went  on  Harnash,  "it's  desperately  hard 
to  tell,  and  I'd  rather  die  than  mention  it,  but  under  the 
circumstances  I  suppose  —  " 

"Out  with  it  at  once,"  cried  Stephanie. 

"Well,  we  had  a  little  dinner  last  night  at  —  well,  never 
mind  where." 


50  By  the  World  Forgot 

"We  had  a  dinner,  too,"  said  Josephine. 

"Yes,  but  I  imagine  ours  was  —  er  —  different.  At  any 
rate,  it  didn't  break  up  until  quite  late,  or,  I  should 
say,  early  in  the  morning,  and  we  were  not  —  quite  our 
selves." 

"But  Derrick  is  the  most  abstemious  of  men." 

"Exactly;  so  am  I,  and  when  that  kind  go  under  it's 
worse  than  —  you  understand,"  he  added  helplessly. 

Stephanie  nodded. 

"When  did  you  see  him  last?" 

"Why  —  er — I'll  make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

"Do  so,  I  beg  you." 

"Well,  then,  we  were  right  enough  when  the  dinner  broke 
up.  Derrick  and  I  left  the  others  to  their  own  devices.  He 
had  arranged  to  spend  the  night  with  me.  We  stopped  at 
one  or  two  places  down  town,  but  reached  my  quarters  in 
Washington  Square  about  two  or  three  o'clock." 

Harnash  paused  and  swallowed  hard.  It  was  an  im 
mensely  difficult  task  to  which  he  had  compelled  himself, 
although  so  far  he  had  told  nothing  but  the  truth. 

"Go  on,"  said  Josephine  Treadway  impatiently  as  the 
pause  lengthened. 

"He  changed  his  mind  after  we  put  the  limousine  in  the 
garage  and  insisted  on  going  back  to  his  own  rooms." 

"Did  you  let  him  go?" 

"I  did." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  Miss  Treadway,  I  couldn't  help  it,  and,  to  be 
frank,  I  didn't  try.  You  see  we  were  neither  of  us  very 
sure  of  ourselves  and — and  —  " 

"I  see." 


The  Wedding  That  Was  Not  51 


"He  took  my  runabout,  drove  off  and  —  that's  all." 

"Have  you  found  the  runabout?" 

"Yes,  the  police  found  it  in  an  alley  near  South  Water 
Street,  badly  smashed.  Beekman's  overcoat  and  cap  were 
in  the  car." 

"Do  you  think  he  has  been  hurt?"  questioned  Stephanie, 
who  had  listened  breathlessly  to  the  conversation  between 
her  lover  and  her  maid-of-honor. 

"I'm  sure  that  he  can't  have  Keen,"  returned  Harnash 
with  definiteness  which  carried  conviction  to  his  questioner, 
and  no  one  else  caught  the  meaning  look  he  shot  at  her. 

"And  that's  all?"  asked  Josephine. 

"Absolutely  all  I  can  tell  you,"  he  replied  truthfully, 
none  noticing  the  equivoke  but  Stephanie,  who  of  course 
could  not  call  attention  to  it. 

"You  poor  girl,"  said  Josephine,  gathering  Stephanie  in 
her  arms. 

"It's  outrageous.  It's  horrible,"  cried  the  girl,  biting 
her  lip  to  keep  back  her  tears. 

She  really  could  scarcely  tell  whether  she  was  glad  or 
sorry,  now  that  it  had  come;  not  that  her  feelings  had 
changed,  but  there  was  the  public  scandal,  the  affront,  the 
—  but  she  had  not  time  to  speculate. 

"What  is  outrageous,  what  is  horrible?"  asked  John 
Maynard,  coming  into  the  room  and  catching  her  words. 
"What  can  be  outrageous  or  horrible  in  such  a  wedding  as 
we  have  arranged?  Why,  Stephanie,  what's  the  matter? 
You're  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  Harnash,  are  you  ill  ?  You're 
a  pretty  looking  spectacle  for  a  best  man." 

"Father,"  said  his  daughter,  "they  can't  find  Derrick." 

"Can't  find  him!"  exclaimed  Maynard.     <fDoes  he  have 


52  By  the  World  Forgot 

to  be  sought  for  on  his  wedding  day?  If  I  were  going  to 
marry  a  stunning  girl  like  you,  for  all  you're  as  pale  as  a 
ghost,  I  —  " 

"There's  not  going  to  be  any  wedding,"  said  Stephanie, 
mechanically. 

"No  wedding!"  roared  Maynard,  surprised  intensely. 
"What  do  you  mean?  Are  you  backing  out  at  the  last 
minute  ?" 

"No,  it's  not  I." 

"Look  here,  will  some  one  explain  this  mystery  to  m«?" 
asked  the  man,  turning  to  the  rather  frightened  bevy  of 
girls.  "It's  eleven-thirty ;  we  ought  to  be  starting.  What's 
the  meaning  of  this  infernal  foolishness?  You,  Harnash, 
what  are  you  standing  there  looking  like  a  ghost  for?  One 
would  think  you  were  going  to  be  married  yourself." 

"Mr.  Maynard,"  said  Josephine,  taking  upon  herself 
the  task,  "Stephanie  has  told  you  the  truth.  Mr.  Harnash 
has  just  come  and  he  doesn't  know  where  Mr.  Beekman  is." 

"Doesn't  know  where  he  is?" 

"He  can't  be  found,  sir,"  said  Harnash. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  he  has  run  away  and  left 
my  girl  in  the  lurch  ?  By  God,  he'll  —  " 

"I'm  sure  it  isn't  that,"  said  Harnash  earnestly,  "but  the 
fact  is  we  had  a  bachelor  dinner  last  night." 

"Of  course  you  did,  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything.     I  guess  we  indulged  a  little  too  much." 

"Well,  bachelors  have  done  that  fool  thing  since  time  and 
the  world  began." 

"Yes,  but  Beekman  hasn't  been  seen  since  early  this 
morning,  two  or  three  o'clock." 

"Who  saw  him  last?" 


The  Wedding  That  Was  Not  53 

"I  did,"  said  Harnash,  briefly  repeating  his  explanation. 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  'phoned  to  his  house  and  they  said  he  hadn't  been 
there  all  night.  I  dressed,  sent  my  man  out  in  a  taxi,  took 
my  own  car,  summoned  the  office  force  to  my  assistance,  and 
Dougherty's  detectives,  and  I've  scoured  the  city  for  him." 

"The  police?" 

"I  have  notified  them,  of  course,  as  soon  as  they  reported 
the  finding  of  my  runabout.  They're  on  the  hunt,  too.  We 
have  even  called  up  every  hotel  in  the  city.  He's  not  to 
be  found." 

"It  must  be  foul  play,"  said  Maynard,  taking  Harnash's 
account  of  it  at  its  face  value. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Harnasji,  wincing  a  little,  although 
he  would  fain  not,  and  again  shooting  a  quick  glance  at 
Stephanie,  and  then  daringly  following  it  with  a  quick  ges 
ture  of  negation  to  reassure  her. 

"Where  that  car  was  found  it  wouldn't  take  much  to 
interest  a  thief." 

"No.  He  had  a  watch,  jewelry,  money.  Indeed,  I  have 
a  dim  remembrance  of  his  flashing  a  roll  in  some  place  or 
other." 

"That  will  be  it." 

"Meanwhile  what  is  to  be  done,  sir?" 

"It's  a  quarter  to  twelve  now,"  said  Josephine  Tread- 
way. 

"God,  how  I  hate  this,"  said  old  Maynard.  "Here,"  he 
stepped  to  the  door  and  called  his  private  secretary,  "Bent- 
ley,  drive  up  to  the  Cathedral  like  mad,  tell  the  Bishop  that 
the  wedding  is  called  off.  Yes,  don't  stand  there  like  a 
fish;  get  out." 


54  By  the  World  Forgot 

"But  we'll  have  to  give  some  reason  to  the  people,  explain 
to  the  guests  in  the  church,"  expostulated  the  secretary. 

"Reason  be  damned,"  said  Maynard,  roughly. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Harnash,  "it  would  be  better  for  all 
concerned,  and  especially  Miss  Maynard,  if  the  matter  were 
explained  at  once,  and  fully.  You  wouldn't  like  to  have 
anyone  think  for  a  moment  that  she  had  been  left  in  the 
lurch." 

"Mr.  Harnash  is  right,  sir.  It  must  be  explained  as  well 
as  it  can." 

"Very  well,  Bentley,"  said  his  employer.  "Tell  the 
Bishop  that  Mr.  Beekman  has  disappeared,  that  we  are  of 
the  opinion  that  he  has  met  with  foul  play,  that  under  the 
circumstances  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  call  off  the  wedding 
and  have  the  explanation  announced  in  the  Cathedral  in  any 
way  he  likes,  and  then  get  back  here  as  quickly  as  possible. 
Stephanie,  I'd  rather  have  lost  half  my  fortune  than  have 
this  happen,  but  keep  up  your  courage.  I  feel  that  nothing 
but  some  dastardly  work  would  have  kept  Beekman  away. 
He  is  the  soul  of  honor  and  he  was  passionately  devoted  to 
you.  Don't  faint,  my  dear  girl." 

"I'm  not  going  to  faint,"  said  Stephanie,  resolutely. 
"Girls,  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  your  disappointment,"  she 
faltered. 

"Don't  mind  us,"  said  Josephine. 

"I'm  afraid  that  perhaps  you  —  you  —  " 

"We're  going  at  once,"  explained  one  of  the  bridesmaids, 
"if  you  will  have  our  motors  called  up." 

"Of  course,"  said  Maynard.  "Harnash,  you  attend  to 
that  and  then  come  to  me  in  the  library.  William,"  he 
added  to  the  footman  who  came  in  obedience  to  his  sum- 


The  Wedding  That  Was  Not  55 

mons,  "get  me  the  chief  of  police  on  the  telephone  and  when 
the  reporters  come,  and  they  will  be  here  just  as  soon  as 
the  announcement  is  made  at  the  church,  show  them  into  the 
library  in  a  body.  I've  got  to  see  them  and  I'll  see  them 
all  at  once.  Harnash,  you  come,  too.  You  can  tell  the  story 
better  than  anyone." 


CHAPTER  VI 

STEPHANIE    IS    GLAD    AFTER    ALL 

THE  sudden  disappearance  of  one  of  the  principals  in 
the  Maynard-Beekman  wedding  was  the  sensation  of 
the  hour.  John  Maynard  was  deeply  hurt  and  terribly 
concerned  because  he  was  very  fond  of  Beekman,  and  be 
cause  in  spite  of  his  bold  front  the  young  man's  failure  to 
appear  had  reflected  upon  his  daughter.  The  lewd  papers 
of  the  baser  sort,  playing  up  the  bachelor  dinner,  did  not 
hesitate  to  point  this  out,  and  insinuations,  so  thinly  dis 
guised  that  every  one  who  read  understood,  appeared  daily. 
That  there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  them  was  of  little 
consequence  either  to  the  writers  who  knew  they  were  lying 
or  to  the  public,  which  did  not.  The  clientele  of  such  papers 
was  ready  to  believe  anything  or  everything  bad;  espe 
cially  of  the  idle  rich. 

Reportorial  and  even  editorial  —  which  is  worse  —  imag 
ination  was  unrestrained.  As  the  newspapers  had  devoted 
so  much  space  to  the  preparations,  they  did  not  stint  them 
selves  in  discussing  the  aftermath  of  the  affair.  The  police 
bent  every  energy  to  solve  the  mystery.  Maynard  was  a 
big  power  in  public  affairs  and  they  were  stimulated  by  a 
reward  of  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  which  Maynard 
offered  for  tidings  of  the  missing  man,  a  reward  which  made 
the  wiseacres  put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks  as  they 
read  of  it. 

56 


Stephanie  Is  Glad  After  All     ,          57 

The  gorgeous  wedding  presents  were  returned.  The 
lovely  lingerie  of  the  bride,  which  had  been  so  talked  about, 
was  laid  away  and  the  bride  herself  was  denied  to  every 
caller.  Even  George  Harnash  sought  access  to  her  person 
in  vain.  The  scandal,  the  humiliation,  had  made  her  seri 
ously  ill,  and  by  her  physician's  orders  she  was  allowed  to 
see  no  one. 

However,  the  first  person  she  did  admit  was  George  Har- 
nash.  Indeed,  so  soon  as  she  was  able  to  be  about  she  called 
him  up  and  demanded  his  immediate  presence.  He  had  been 
waiting  for  such  a  summons.  He  knew  it  was  unavoidable. 
It  had  to  come.  He  dropped  everything  to  go  to  her.  He 
was  horrified  when  he  saw  her.  He  had  got  back  some  of  his 
nerve  and  equipoise  to  the  casual  observation,  although  he 
still  showed  what  he  had  gone  through  to  a  close  scrutiny. 
He  had  been  catechized  and  cross-questioned,  even  put 
through  a  mild  form  of  the  third  degree  by  the  police,  but 
little  to  their  satisfaction.  He  could  tell  them  nothing 
definite.  They  got  no  more  out  of  him  than  he  had  volun 
teered  at  first.  They  were  completely  and  entirely  mystified. 

Several  steamers  had  sailed  for  various  ports  that  day 
and  night,  but  it  was  easily  established,  when  they  reached 
port,  that  they  had  not  carried  the  missing  man.  They 
completely  overlooked  the  Susquehanna  for  reasons  which 
will  appear.  Beekman's  disappearance  remained  one  of 
those  unexplained  mysteries  for  which  New  York  was  noto 
rious.  The  reward  still  stood  and  the  authorities  were  still 
very  much  on  the  alert,  but  they  were  absolutely  without 
an}r  clue  whatsoever.  Derrick  Beekman  had  disappeared 
from  the  face  of  the  earth.  Besides  Harnash,  there  was  only 
one  person  in  the  city  who  had  any  definite  idea  as  to  the 


58  By  the  World  Forgot 

———_____ 

cause  of  his  departure,  and  that  was  Stephanie  Maynard.  A 
proud,  high-spirited  girl,  she  had  suffered  untold  anguish  in 
the  publicity  and  scandal  and  innuendo. 

"My  God,  Stephanie !"  cried  Harnash,  as  she  received  him 
in  a  lovely  negligee  in  her  boudoir.  "You  look  like  death 
itself." 

"And  I  have  passed  through  it,"  said  the  girl,  "in  the 
last  week.  Now,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  where  Derrick  is." 

"Stephanie,"  answered  Harnash,  "it  would  be  foolish  for 
me  to  pretend  that  I  don't  know." 

"It  certainly  would." 

"I  told  you  that  I  meant  to  have  you  and  that  I  would 
stop  the  wedding  if  I  had  to  take  you  from  the  altar  steps." 

"But  we  didn't  get  that  far." 

"It  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  I  —  er  —  took  him.  It 
was  easier." 

"Where  and  how  did  you  take  him?" 

"Don't  ask.    I  can't  tell." 

"And  you  have  covered  me  with  shame  inexpressible. 
I  shall  never  get  over  it  as  long  as  I  live.  How  could  you 
do  it?  How  could  you?" 

"Are  you  reproaching  me?" 

"Reproaching  you !"  cried  Stephanie.  "Do  you  think  I 
could  tamely  endure  this  public  scandal,  this  abandonment, 
without  a  word?" 

"But  I  did  it  for  you." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  that  doesn't  make  it  any  less 
humiliating." 

"Stephanie,  tell  me,  do  you  love  Derrick  Beekman?" 

"No,  I  hate  him." 

"And  me?" 


Stephanie  Is  Glad  'After  'All  59 

"I  hate  you,  too." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that." 

"I  wish  I  were  dead,"  cried  the  girl.  "I  can  never  go 
out  on  the  street  again.  I  can  never  hold  up  my  head  any 
where  any  more,  and  it's  your  fault.  What  have  you  done 
with  him?" 

"Do  you  want  him  back?  Do  you  want  to  go  through 
with  the  marriage?  Look  here,"  said  Harnash,  "desperate 
diseases  require  desperate  remedies.  I'll  tell  you  this,  and 
that  is  all  I  will  tell  you.  I  am  sure  Derrick  is  all  right. 
He  will  come  to  no  harm." 

"Are  you  holding  him  a  prisoner  somewhere?" 

"I  am  not." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"It  is  better  not.  It  isn't  necessary,"  answered  Harnash 
stubbornly. 

"And  you  actually  made  away  with  him?" 

"I  got  him  out  of  the  way,  if  that's  what  you  mean. 
But  he's  alive,  well,  and  in  no  danger.  I  caused  it  to  be 
done  —  " 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Don't  you  know  that  you've  done  a  criminal  act?" 

"Of  course  I  know  it.  Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool  because 
I'm  crazy  in  love  with  you?" 

"And  don't  you  know  you  will  have  gained  his  eternal 
enmity  and  the  enmity  of  my  father  when  they  find  this 
out?" 

"I  don't  care  about  anybody's  enmity  unless  it's  yours." 

"Well,  you've  almost  gained  mine." 

"Almost,   but   not  quite.      You   feel  horribly  now.      I 


60  By  the  World  Forgot 

understand.  Do  you  think  it  has  been  j  oy f ul  to  me  to  have 
put  my  best  friend  out  of  the  way  and  to  have  brought  all 
this  scandal  and  shame  upon  you?  But  there  was  no  other 
way.  You're  mine  in  the  sight  of  God  and  I'm  going  to 
make  you  mine  in  the  sight  of  men." 

"But  my  father  will  never  forgive  you  when  he  knows." 

"I  don't  think  he  will  ever  find  out  my  part,  or  Beekman 
either." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  can't  explain,  but  if  your  father  does  find  out  what 
can  he  do?  In  six  months  I'll  be  independent  of  anything 
and  anybody  and  when  we  are  married  we  can  laugh  at  him 
and  at  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"At  Beekman,  too?" 

"Yes,  even  at  him.  Stephanie,  you  don't  know  what  it 
is  to  love  as  I  do.  For  you  I'd  stop  at  nothing  short  of 
murder.  You  didn't  believe  me  when  I  said  that,  but  I 
meant  it.  I've  made  myself  a  criminal,  I  admit,  but  for 
your  sake.  Now  am  I  going  to  fail  of  my  reward?  Do 
you  want  me  to  produce  Derrick  Beekman?  Do  you  want 
him  to  come  back  and  throw  me  in  jail  and  marry  you? 
Well,  I  didn't  expect  it;  I  didn't  count  upon  it  — "  this 
was  only  a  bluff,  of  course,  since  by  no  means  could  Harnash 
have  got  back  Beekman  from  the  Swsquehanna  then  — 
"but  if  that  is  what  you  really  want  say  the  word.  Can 
you  turn  down  a  love  like  mine,  that  will  stop  at  nothing 
for  your  happiness  ?  I  swear  to  you  that  I  believe  it  is  as 
much  for  your  happiness  as  my  own.  I  won't  say  it  is  all 
for  you,  because  I  want  you,  but  I  am  thinking  of  you  all 
the  time.  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  you  in  his  arms.  What  is 
the  little  bit  of  scandal?  It  will  be  forgotten.  When  you 


Stephanie  Is  Glad  'After  'All  61 

are  my  wife  I'll  take  care  of  you.  If  you  don't  want  to  live 
here  we'll  live  anywhere.  If  I  pull  off  two  or  three  big 
deals  that  are  in  the  air  I'll  be  able  to  do  anything.  Oh, 
Stephanie,  you  aren't  going  back  on  me  now?" 

"You  know  that  I  couldn't  do  that,"  answered  the  girl, 
greatly  moved  by  his  passionate  pleading.  After  all,  she 
did  love  this  man  and  not  the  other. 

"You're  the  kind  of  woman  that  a  man  will  do  anything 
for.  I'm  sorry  for  Beekman,  I'm  sorry  for  everything,  but 
I'm  going  to  have  you."  He  came  close  to  her  as  he  spoke. 
"Do  you  understand  that?"  he  asked,  raising  his  voice.  "I 
did  it  for  you,  you,  and  no  man  shall  balk  me  of  my  reward. 
If  you  won't  come  willingly,  you  shall  come  unwillingly." 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  "how  horribly  determined  and  wicked 
you  are,  and  yet  —  " 

As  she  looked  up  at  him  the  passion  with  which  he  spoke, 
rough,  brutal  as  it  was,  quickened  again  her  heart  that  she 
thought  was  dead.  For  the  first  time  in  weeks  the  color 
rushed  into  her  face. 

"That's  right,"  said  Harnash,  watching  her  narrowly. 
"I  can  still  bring  the  blood  to  your  cheeks." 

He  bent  over  her,  he  dragged  her  almost  rudely  from  her 
seat  and  crushed  her  against  him.  He  kissed  her  as  roughly 
as  he  had  spoken. 

"This,"  he  said,  "pays  for  everything.  If  I'm  found 
out,  if  I  have  to  go  to  jail,  I  don't  care.  I'm  glad.  You 
love  me.  You  can't  deny  it  and  in  your  heart  of  hearts 
you're  glad  and  you'll  be  gladder  every  hour  of  your  life." 

The  girl  gave  up.  After  all,  what  possibility  of  happi 
ness  did  she  have  except  with  Harnash  ?  More  and  more  she 
appeared  before  the  world  as  a  thing  cast  off  and  scorned. 


62  By  the  World  Forgot 

Harnash's  position  in  society  and  business  was  improving 
every  day,  but  it  was  not  that  which  influenced  her.  She 
really  loved  him.  She  responded  to  his  pleading.  Mistaken 
though  he  was,  vicious  as  had  been  his  design,  that  effort, 
wrong  as  was  his  method,  showed  her  how  much  he  loved  her. 

"You're  not  going  to  fail  me  now,  are  you?  You  need 
not  answer.  I  can  feel  it  in  the  beat  of  your  heart  against 
mine." 

"No,"  said  the  girl.     "I'm  yours,  I  suppose." 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"Yes,  I  know.    No  one  else  would  want  me,  discarded." 

"I  want  you.  I'd  want  you  if  the  whole  world  rejected 
you." 

"And  you  won't  tell  me  where  Derrick  is  ?" 

"No,  it's  a  heavy  secret  to  carry  in  one's  breast.  I  feared 
that  they  would  worm  it  out  of  me.  You  can't  know  what 
I've  gone  through,"  he  went  on.  "I've  been  suspected  and 
questioned  and  cross-questioned,  but  I  never  gave  it  away. 
It  was  you  who  kept  me  up.  The  thought  of  you  always, 
you,  you,  you !  Meanwhile  I'm  slaving  my  life  out,  almost 
wrecking  my  brain,  to  carry  out  these  big  deals,  and  when 
it  is  over  and  I  have  you  they  can  do  their  worst.  Your 
father,  Beekman  when  he  comes  back  — " 

"Oh,  then  he  will  come  backP" 

"Of  course  he  will.  And  I'll  face  them  all.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  have  damned  myself  for  you  or  not,  but  if  I  have, 
I  don't  care,"  he  went  on  recklessly. 

"It  was  my  fault,  anyway,"  said  the  girl.  "I  should 
have  been  stronger.  I  should  not  have  agreed  to  such  a 
marriage,  and  I  should  not  have  kept  the  agreement  when 
I  loved  you." 


Stephanie  Is  Glad  After  AH  63 

"You  need  not  say  that,"  said  Harnash  —  there  was  good 
stuff  in  him  —  "It  is  all  my  own  plan  and  scheme.  You 
were  bound,  and  there  was  only  one  way  to  break  the  bond. 
Now  I  give  myself  six  months.  By  that  time  the  talk  will 
have  died  out  and  we  will  be  married." 

"I'll  marry  you,"  said  the  girl,  "or  I'll  marry  no  one 
else  on  earth,  but  before  I  marry  you  you  must  bring 
Derrick  Beekman  into  my  presence  and  he  must  release  me." 

"That  is  a  harder  thing  than  what  I  have  done,  but  I'll  do 
it.  Provided  you  will  help  me." 

"I  will,  but  how?" 

"When  you  see  him  you  must  tell  him  that  you  don't  love 
him  and  that  you  wish  to  marry  me." 

"Very  well.     I'll  do  that  part." 

"And  I'll  do  the  other." 

"Promise  me,  on  your  word  of  honor." 

"Honor!"  exclaimed  Harnash  bitterly.  "Do  you  think, 
after  what  I  have  done,  that  I've  got  any  honor,  that  you 
could  trust  to  ?" 

"I'll  be  trusting  myself  to  you,"  said  the  girl,  "and  you 
know  what  that  implies." 

"Say  that  you  are  glad  that  it  has  happened  as  it  has, 
despite  the  scandal." 

Stephanie  looked  at  him  a  long  time. 

"You  poor  boy,"  she  said,  drawing  his  head  down  and 
kissing  his  forehead  in  that  motherly  way  which  all  women 
have  toward  the  men  they  love  until  the  maternal  affection 
has  a  chance  to  vent  itself  in  the  right  direction.  "How 
you  must  have  suffered  for  me." 

"It  was  nothing." 

"Yes,  I  am  glad,"  she  said  at  last. 


CHAPTER  VH 

UP  AGAINST  IT  HAKD 

WHEN  he  went  to  bed,  what  time  it  was  when  he  awak 
ened,  or  where  he  was  at  that  moment  were  facts 
about  which  Derrick  Beekman  had  no  ideas  whatsoever.  At 
first  he  was  conscious  of  but  one  thing  —  that  he  was;  and 
that  consciousness  was  painful,  not  to  say  harrowing,  to  the 
last  degree.  For  one  thing,  he  was  horribly  sick.  The  place 
where  he  lay  appeared  to  be  as  unsteady  as  his  mental  con 
dition  was  uncertain.  He  was  heaved  up  and  down,  tossed 
back  and  forth,  and  rolled  from  side  to  side  in  an  utterly 
inexplicable  way  to  his  bewildered  mind.  And  every  mad 
motion  threw  him  against  some  bruised  and  painful  portion 
of  his  anatomy. 

As  he  struggled  to  open  his  eyes  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  lying  in  pitch  darkness.  His  ears  were  assailed  by  a 
concatenation  of  discordant  noises,  creaks,  groans,  thunder 
ous  blows  of  which  he  could  make  nothing.  No  one  has  ever 
pictured  hell  as  a  place  of  reeking  odors  and  hideous  sounds. 
Why  that  opportunity  has  been  neglected  is  not  known.  Cer 
tainly  the  popular  brimstone  idea  of  it  is  highly  suggestive. 
At  any  rate,  the  bad  air  and  other  indescribable  odors,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  noises  that  came  to  him,  added  to  his 
physical  perturbation  and  wretchedness.  Under  the  cir 
cumstances,  the  wonder  was  not  so  much  that  he  did  not 
think  clearly,  but  that  he  could  think  at  all.  It  was  only 

64 


Up  Against  It  Hard  65 

after  some  moments  of  sickening  return  to  consciousness 
that  he  became  convinced  that  he  was  alive  and  somewhere. 

He  lay  for  a  little  while  desperately  trying  to  solve  the 
problems  presented  to  him  by  his  environment,  with  but 
little  immediate  success.  Finally,  as  a  help  toward  clear 
ing  up  the  mystery,  he  decided  upon  exploration.  Though 
the  undertaking  was  painful  to  him,  he  made  an  effort  to  sit 
up.  His  head  came  in  violent  contact  with  something  which1 
he  had  not  noticed  in  the  obscurity  above  him  and 
nearly  knocked  him  senseless  again.  After  another  violent 
fit  of  sickness,  he  decided  upon  a  more  circumspect 
investigation. 

He  felt  about  with  his  hands  and  discovered  that  he  was 
in  some  box-like  enclosure  one  side  of  which  seemed  to  be 
open  save  for  a  containing  strip  against  which  he  had  been 
violently  hurled  several  times  and  which  had  prevented  him 
from  being  thrown  out.  This  enclosure  was  in  violently 
agitated  motion.  At  first,  in  his  confusion,  he  decided 
vaguely  upon  a  railroad  train,  a  sleeping-car  berth,  but  he 
realized  that  not  even  the  roughest  freight  car  would  pro 
duce  such  an  effect  as  that  unless  the  train  were  running  on 
the  cross  ties,  in  which  case  its  stoppage  would  be  immedi 
ate.  This  pitching  and  tossing  kept  on.  If  he  had  been 
in  his  clear  senses,  he  would  have  known  in  an  instant  where 
he  was,  but  it  was  only  after  violent  effort  at  concentration 
that  his  aching  head  told  him  that  he  must  be  aboard  a 
ship! 

He  was  familiar  with  steamers  of  the  more  magnificent 
class,  and  with  his  own  yacht,  and  the  pleasure  craft  of  his 
friends,  and  he  knew  enough  from  reading  to  decide  that 
this  was  the  forecastle  of  a  ship.  He  decided  that  it  was  a 


66 


wooden  ship.  The  outer  planking  against  which  he  lay  was 
of  wood.  He  listened  next  for  the  beat  or  throb  of  a  screw, 
and  heard  none.  Thinking  more  and  more  clearly,  it  came 
to  him  that  it  was  a  sailing  ship.  As  his  eyes  became  used 
to  the  obscurity,  he  saw  abaft  his  feet  and  to  his  left  hand, 
for  he  lay  head  to  the  bows,  well  forward  on  the  port  side, 
a  square  of  light  which  betokened  an  open  hatchway.  He 
strained  his  eyes  up  through  the  hatchway.  He  could  make 
out  nothing.  It  was  still  daylight  on  deck,  and  that  was 
all  he  could  decide. 

As  he  lay  staring  stupidly,  above  the  roar  of  the  wind, 
and  the  creaking  and  groaning  of  the  straining  ship  and  the 
thunder  of  great  waves  against  the  bow  as  she  plunged  into 
the  head  seas,  he  heard  harsh  voices.  The  tramping  of  many 
feet,  hurried,  irregular,  came  to  him ;  then  a  sudden  silence ; 
a  command  followed,  and  again  the  massed  and  steady  tram 
pling  of  the  same  feet.  A  shrill,  harsh-creaking  sound 
followed,  as  of  taut  rope  straining  through  the  dry  sheaves 
of  a  heavy  block.  Rude  rhythmical  sounds,  sailors'  chanties, 
penetrated  the  wooden  cave  in  one  of  the  recesses  of  which 
he  lay.  It  was  a  sailing  ship,  obviously.  They  were  mast 
heading  yards ;  apparently  setting  or  taking  in  sail. 

What  ship,  and  how  came  he  aboard?  By  this  time  he 
was  sufficiently  himself  to  come  to  a  decision.  He  would  get 
out  of  that  berth.  He  would  mount  the  ladder,  the  top  of 
which  he  could  see  dimly  nearest  the  hatch-combing,  and 
get  out  on  deck. 

He  thrust  one  leg  over  the  side  of  the  berth,  and  as  the 
dim  light  fell  upon  it,  he  discovered  that  he  was  barefoot. 
It  had  not  jet  occurred  to  him  to  examine  his  clothes.  Being 
asleep,  he  would  naturally  be  wearing  the  luxurious  night 


Up  'Against  It  Hard  67 

gear  he  affected.  Not  so  in  this  instance.  Where  the  white 
of  his  leg  stopped  he  discerned  a  fringe  of  ragged  trousers. 
He  felt  them.  They  were  tattered  and  torn,  and  inde 
scribably  foul  and  dirty.  Mystery  on  mystery !  Cautiously, 
so  as  not  to  hit  his  head  a  second  time,  he  sat  up  and  lowered 
himself  to  the  deck.  Continuing  his  inspection,  he  was 
horrified  at  the  shirt  which  covered  the  upper  half  of  his 
body,  and  which  fully  matched  the  trousers.  Where  were 
the  clothes  he  had  worn  the  night  before? 

It  came  upon  him  like  the  proverbial  flash  of  lightning 
from  a  clear  sky  —  that  bachelor  supper,  the  gay  revelry,! 
the  wine  he  had  drunk,  his  sallying  forth  with  George  Har-] 
nash.  He  vaguely  remembered  their  first  stop;  after  that 
—  nothing.  Where  were  his  watch,  his  studs,  his  money?) 
He  looked  around  carefully,  with  a  faint  hope  that  he  might 
see  them.  A  dress  suit  was,  of  course,  an  absurdity  at  that 
hour  and  in  that  place,  but  anything  was  better  than  those 
filthy  rags.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  of  them,  of 
course. 

The  horror  and  unpleasantness  of  the  place  grew  upon 
him.  Lest  he  should  give  way  to  another  tearing  fit  of 
sickness,  he  must  get  up  on  deck.  Clothes  would  come  later, 
and  explanations.  He  staggered  aft  toward  the  foot  of  the 
ladder,  the  violent  motion  of  the  ship  —  and  in  his  place,  in 
the  very  eyes  of  her,  the  motion  was  worst  —  making  prog 
ress  difficult.  It  was  not  that  he  lacked  sea  legs,  nor  was  he 
merely  seasick.  His  unsteadiness  and  nausea  came  from 
other  causes. 

As  he  put  his  foot  on  the  ladder,  like  another  flash  came 
the  recollection  that  this  was  his  wedding  day.  He  was, 
indeed,  a  day  out  in  his  reckoning,  but  that  was  to  develop 


68  By  the  World  Forgot 

later.  He  stopped,  petrified  at  the  appalling  thought.  His 
wedding  day,  and  he  in  this  guise  on  a  ship!  He  groaned 
with  horror,  clapping  his  hands  to  his  face,  and  the  next  roll 
threw  him  violently  against  the  ladder,  opening  a  cut  in  his 
head  so  that  the  blood  began  to  trickle  down  the  side  of 
his  cheek. 

This  seemed  to  have  a  good  effect  upon  him.  The  blow, 
as  it  were,  dissipated  some  of  his  imaginings.  It  was  an 
assault  that  quickened  the  working  of  his  mind.  He  rose 
to  the  provocative  stimulus  of  it.  He  got  to  his  feet, 
brushed  the  blood  out  of  his  eyes,  mounted  the  ladder,  and 
stepped  over  the  hatch-combing. 

He  found  himself  on  the  deck  of  a  large,  old-fashioned, 
full-rigged  sailing  ship.  A  lookout  paced  across  the  deck 
from  side  to  side  forward.  Way  aft  he  saw  a  flying  bridge 
just  forward  of  the  mizzenmast,  on  which  two  officers  stood. 
A  number  of  men  had  tailed  on  to  what  he  realized  were  the 
f  oretops'l  halliards,  upon  which  they  were  swaying  violently, 
constantly  urged  to  greater  exertions  by  a  big,  rough- 
looking  man  who  stood  over  them.  From  time  to  time  they 
broke  into  a  rude  chant,  in  order  to  apply  their  efforts 
unitedly  and  rhythmically  to  the  task  of  raising  the  fore- 
tops'l  yard,  the  sail  of  which  had  just  been  double  reefed. 
The  men  who  had  performed  that  task  were  tumbling  down 
from  aloft  on  the  shrouds  on  either  side.  Although  he  was  an 
amateur  sailor,  Beekman  was  familiar  enough  with  ships  to 
realize  much  of  what  was  going  on. 

It  was  a  raw,  rough  day.  There  was  a  bite  in  the  wind 
which  struck  cold  upon  his  unaccustomed  body  through  his 
rags.  It  was  already  blowing  a  half  gale,  with  a  fine 
promise  of  coming  harder,  apparently,  and  they  were  reduc- 


Up  'Against  It  Hard  69 

ing  the  canvas.    As  the  ship  was  by  the  wind,  sheets  of  cold 
spray  swept  across  the  already  wet  decks. 

While  he  stared,  the  men  stopped  jigging  on  the  fore- 
tops'l  halliards.  They  were  belayed,  and  at  the  mate's  com 
mand  the  crew  lined  up  on  the  main  tops'l  halliards,  ready 
to  sway  away  at  command,  while  those  topmen,  whose  busi 
ness  it  was  to  handle  the  canvas  on  the  mainmast,  sprang 
up  on  the  sheer  poles  and  rapidly  ascended  the  ratlines. 
In  all  these  movements,  which  appeared  confused,  but 
which  were  not,  Beekman  had  stood  unnoticed,  but  he  was 
not  to  escape  attention  much  longer.  The  man  who  had 
been  directing  the  men  on  the  halliards  caught  sight  of  him 
as  they  were  belayed.  He  turned  and  walked  forward. 

"Here,  you  sojer,"  he  began  roughly,  "what  in  hell  do 
you  mean  by  standin'  aroun'  here  doin'  nothin'  ?" 
"Are  you  talking  to  me?" 

"Who  else  would  I  be  talkin'  to?  D'ye  think  I'm 
addressin'  a  congregation?" 

"I'm  not  accustomed  to  this  sort  of  speech,  and  I'll  thank 
you  to  modify  it,"  answered  Beekman,  outraged  by  the 
other's  brutal  rudeness,  and  quite  forgetful  of  his  appear 
ance  and  condition. 

He  was  a  quick-tempered  young  man,  and  all  his  life  he 
had  received  deference  and  respect.  He  did  not  propose  to 
let  anybody  talk  to  him  that  way. 

"Why,  you  infernal  sea  lawyer,  you  back-talkin'  slob,  you 
dirty  malingerer,  what  do  you  think  you  are;  one  of  the 
officers  on  this  ship;  a  passenger?" 

"Whatever  I  am,  I'm  not  under  your  orders." 
"You  ain't,  ain't  ye !     I'll  learn  you  what  you  are.     Git 
aft  an'  tail  on  to  them  halliards,  an'  be  quick  about  it." 


70 By  the  World  Forgot 

"I'll  see  you  damned  first." 

"What !"  roared  Bill  Woywod.  He  balled  his  enormous 
fist  and  struck  viciously  at  Beekman.  In  a  rough-and- 
tumble  fight  the  latter  would  have  had  no  chance  with  the 
mate,  for  what  the  officer  lacked  in  science  he  made  up  in 
brute  force.  Beekman  was  in  a  horrible  physical  condition 
from  his  excesses  and  the  result  of  the  knockout  drops  which 
had  been  administered  to  him,  but  his  spirit  was  as  strong 
as  ever,  and  his  skill  as  great.  He  parried  the  blow  easily 
with  his  left,  and  sent  a  swift  right  to  Woywod's  iron  jaw. 

The  main  tops'l  halliards  had  not  yet  been  cast  off,  and 
the  men  surged  forward.  Captain  Peleg  Fish,  with  an 
amazing  agility  for  one  of  his  years,  disdaining  the  accom 
modation  ladders,  leaped  over  the  rail  of  the  bridge,  dropped 
to  the  deck,  and  ran  forward,  leaving  the  conning  of  the 
ship  to  the  second  mate. 

"Rank  mutiny,  by  heck,"  shouted  the  captain,  drawing  a 
revolver.  "Stand  clear,  git  back  to  them  halliards,  every 
mother's  son  of  ye,  or  I'll  let  daylight  through  ye.  What's 
the  matter  here,  Mr.  Woywod?" 

Now,  if  Beekman  had  been  in  good  condition,  that  blow 
to  the  jaw  might  have  put  Woywod  out  for  a  few  moments, 
although  that  is  questionable,  but  as  it  was,  it  had  merely 
staggered  him.  It  lacked  steam.  But  it  was  hard  enough 
to  rouse  all  the  devilry  in  the  mate's  heart. 

"Do  you  need  any  help,  sir?"  continued  Captain  Peleg 
Fish,  handling  his  pistol. 

"None.  Stand  back,  men,"  he  answered  to  the  captain, 
and  shouted  to  the  crew  in  one  breath. 

Woywod  had  taken  one  blow.  He  took  another,  for,  as 
he  leaped  at  Beekman,  who  was  not  so  thoroughly  angry 


Up  Against  It  Hard  71 

that  he  did  not  stop  to  reason,  the  latter  hit  him  with  all  his 
force.     Woywod  partly  parried  the  blow,  and  the  next 
moment  he  had  the  young  man  in  his  arms.    He  crushed  him 
against  his  breast;  he  shook  him  to  and  fro.     He  finally 
shifted  his  hands  to  the  other's  throat  and  choked  him  until 
he  was  insensible.     Then  he  threw  him  in  the  lee  scuppers 
and   turned   aft,   the   crew   falling  back   before   him  and 
running  to  the  halliards  with  almost  ludicrous  haste. 
"What  was  the  trouble?"  asked  Captain  Fish. 
"The  lazy  swab  refused  to  obey  my  orders  to  tail  on  the 
halliards  with  the  rest  of  the  men,  an'  then  he  struck  me." 
"Rank  mutiny,"  shouted  the  captain.    "Shall  we  put  him. 
in  irons?" 

"No,  sir.  We're  not  any  too  full  handed  as  it  is.  He 
evidently  doesn't  know  the  law  of  the  sea.  Perhaps  he's  not 
quite  himself.  It's  the  first  time  he's  been  on  deck  since  we 
took  our  departure  yesterday  mornin'.  Leave  him  to  me, 
sir;  I'll  turn  him  into  a  good,  willin',  obedient  sailorman 
afore  I  gits  through  with  him." 

"Very  good.  Bear  a  hand  with  the  maintops'l,"  said  the 
captain,  turning  and  walking  aft.  "It  blows  harder  every 
minute.  I  don't  want  to  rip  the  sticks  off  her  just  yet, 
although  I  can  carry  on  as  long  as  any  master  that  sails  the 
sea,"  he  added  for  the  benefit  of  Salver,  the  second  mate. 
The  sea  was  rising,  and  although  the  Susquehanna  was  a 
dry  ship,  yet  the  wind  had  nipped  the  tops  of  the  waves  and 
from  time  to  time  the  spray  came  aboard.  There  was  water 
in  the  lee  scuppers,  and  this  presently  brought  back  con 
sciousness  to  Beekman.  He  sat  up  finally,  and,  no  one  paying 
him  any  attention,  watched  the  proceedings  until  the  reefs 
had  been  taken  in  the  tops'ls  and  the  ship  prepared  for  the 


72  By  the  World  Forgot 

growing  storm.  He  watched  them  with  no  degree  of  interest 
but  with  black  rage  and  murder  in  his  heart.  If  he  had  a 
weapon,  or  the  strength,  he  thought  he  would  have  killed 
the  mate  as  the  latter  came  toward  him. 

With  a  desire,  natural  under  the  circumstances,  to  be  in 
position  for  whatever  might  betide,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and 
clung  desperately  to  the  pinrail,  confronting  the  mate.  The 
men  of  the  crew  had  scattered  to  their  various  stations  and 
duties.  All  hands  had  been  called,  but  the  ship  having  been 
made  snug  alow  and  aloft,  the  watch  below  had  been  dis 
missed,  and  some  of  them  were  already  tripping  down  the 
ladder  into  the  forepeak.  Beekman  was  left  entirely  to  his 
own  devices.  No  one  presumed  to  interfere  between  the  mate 
and  this  newest  member  of  the  ship's  people. 

"Well,  you,"  began  Woywod  with  an  oath.  "Have  you 
had  your  lesson  ?  Do  you  know  who's  who  aboard  this  ship  ? 
Are  you  ready  to  turn  to?" 

"I'm  ready  for  nothing,"  said  Beekman  hotly,  "except  to 
kill  you  if  I  get  a  chance." 

"Look  here,"  said  Woywod,  "you're  evidently  a  green 
hand.  Probably  you've  never  been  on  a  ship  afore,  an* 
you  don't  know  the  law  of  the  sea.  'T  ain't  to  be  expected 
that  you  would.  We  gits  many  aboard  that  makes  their  first 
v'yage  with  us.  But  there's  one  thing  you  do  know,  an' 
that's  that  I'm  your  master."  His  great  hand  shot  out  and 
shook  itself  beneath  Beekman's  face.  "An*  I'm  your  master 
not  only  because  I'm  first  officer  of  this  ship,  but  because  I'm 
a  better  man  than  you  are.  I  flung  you  into  the  lee  scuppers 
an'  I  can  do  it  again.  I'm  willin'  an'  wishful  to  do  it,  too. 
If  you  gimme  any  more  mutinous  back  talk ;  if  you  refuse  to 
turn  to  an'  do  your  duty  accordin'  to  the  articles  you  signed 


Up  Against  It  Hard  73 

when  you  come  aboard,  you'll  git  it  again.  If  you  act  like 
a  man  instead  of  a  fool,  you'll  have  no  more  trouble  with 
me  's  long  as  you  obey  orders.  D'ye  git  that  ?" 

"I  get  it,  yes.  It's  plain  enough,  but  it  makes  no 
difference  to  me." 

"It  don't,  don't  it?" 

"No;  and  I'm  not  a  member  of  this  crew.  I  signed  no 
articles,  and  I  don't  propose  to  do  a  thing  unless  I  please. 
I  want  to  see  the  captain." 

"You  gimme  the  lie,  do  you?"  said  Woywod,  approach 
ing  nearer. 

"Now,  look  here,"  said  Beekman ;  "I  want  you  to  under 
stand  one  thing." 

"What's  that?" 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  you.  You  can  kill  me.  You've  got 
the  physical  strength  to  do  it,  although  if  I  were  not  so 
sick,  there  might  be  an  argument  as  to  that;  so  you  might 
as  well  quit  bullying  me.  Oh,  yes,  I  have  no  doubt  but 
what  you  could  knock  me  over  again,  but  I'll  die  fighting." 

His  hand  clenched  a  belaying  pin.  He  drew  it  out  and 
lifted  it  up. 

"Mr.  Woywod,"  the  captain's  voice  came  from  aft,  "is 
that  man  givin'  you  any  trouble  again  ?" 

"I  can  deal  with  him,  sir." 

"Send  him  aft  to  me." 

Of  course,  Woywod  could  not  disobey  so  direct  an  order. 
He  had  no  relish  for  it,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
Beekman  himself  took  action.  He  shoved  past  the  mate, 
who,  under  the  circumstances,  did  not  dare  to  hit  him,  and 
made  his  way  staggering  along  the  deck  to  the  bridge, 
where  the  mate  followed  him.  Two  or  three  of  the  crew 


74  By  the  World  Forgot 

came  aft,  but  the  mate  drove  them  forward  with  curses 
and  oaths. 

"Young  man,"  said  the  captain,  an  old  man  of  short 
stature,  but  immensely  broad  shouldered  and  powerful,  "do 
you  know  what  mutiny  is?" 

"I  certainly  do." 

"Oh,  you've  been  to  sea  before,  have  you?" 

"Many  times." 

"On  what  ships?" 

"Trans- Atlantic  liners  and  my  own  yacht." 

"Your  own  yacht!"  The  captain  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

"That's  what  I  said." 

"Do  you  know  I'm  the  master  of  this  ship?" 

"I  presume  so." 

"Well,  then,  say  'sir'  to  me,  an'  be  quick  about  it." 

"It  is  your  due,"  said  Beekman ;  "I  should  have  done  it 
before.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

"That's  better.  Now,  what's  this  cock-an'-bull  story 
you're  tryin'  to  tell  me?  Look  here,  Smith  —  " 

"That's  not  my  name,  sir." 

"Well,  that's  the  name  you  made  your  mark  to  on  the 
ship's  articles  when  you  were  brought  aboard,  the  drunkest 
sailor  I  ever  seen." 

"That's  exactly  it,"  said  Beekman.  "I'm  no  sailor,  and 
my  name  is  not  Smith." 

"What's  your  name  ?" 

"Beekman ;  Derrick  Beekman." 

"How  came  you  aboard  my  ship?" 

"I  suppose  I've  been  shanghaied.  I  don't  know  any  more 
than  you  do ;  perhaps  not  as  much." 


Up  Against  It  Hard  75 

"You  mean,"  roared  the  captain,  "that  I  had  any  hand 
in  bringing  you  here?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that.  I  only  know  that  I 
was  to  be  married  today,  Thursday." 

"'T ain't  Thursday;  it's  Friday.  You've  been  in  a 
drunken  stupor  since  Thursday  morning." 

"Friday !" 

Beekman  looked  about  him  with  something  like  despair 
in  his  heart.  There  was  not  even  a  ship  to  be  seen  in  the 
whole  expanse  of  leaden  sea. 

"Captain —    What's  your  name,  sir?" 

"Well,  the  impudence  of  that,"  ejaculated  Woywod. 

"What  difference  does  it  make  to  you  what  the  cap'n's 
name  is,"  sneered  Salver. 

"It's  Peleg  Fish,  Smith-Beekman,  or  Beekman-Smith; 
Captain  Peleg  Fish." 

"Well,  Captain  Fish,  I'm  a  member  of  an  old  New  York 
family  and  —  " 

"Families  don't  count  for  nothin'  here,"  said  the  captain. 
"If  that's  all  you've  got  to  say,  I've  seen  a  many  of  them 
last  scions  brought  down  to  the  fok's'l." 

"I  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  the  daughter  of  John 
Maynard.  I  presume  you've  heard  of  him." 

"Do  you  mean  the  president  of  the  Inter-Oceanic  Trading 
Company?" 

"I  do." 

"Well,  I've  heard  of  him  all  right,"  laughed  the  captain. 
"This  is  the  Susquehanna.  She  belongs  to  his  company. 
We  fly  his  house  flag.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
claim  to  have  been  engaged  to  his  daughter;  a  drunken 
ragamuffin  like  you,  the  off-scourin's  of  Water  Street, 


76 


which  the  crimps  unload  on  us  poor,  helpless,  seafarin'  men 
as  able  seamen?" 

"I  was.  I  am.  The  wedding  was  set  for  yesterday.  We 
had  a  bachelor  dinner  on  Wednesday  night,  and  I  guess  we 
all  drank  too  much.  At  any  rate,  I  don't  know  anything 
further  except  that  I  woke  up  here." 

"It's  a  likely  story." 

"That  chap's  got  a  rich  imagination,"  sneered  the  second 
mate. 

"He'd  orter  be  writin'  romances,"  ejaculated  Woywod. 

"Enough,"  said  Captain  Fish.  "Your  story  may  be 
true  or  it  may  not.  I  don't  think  it  is,  but  whether  it  is  or 
not,  it  don't  matter.  You  were  brought  aboard  at  two 
o'clock  Thursday  morning.  We  tripped  and  sailed  at  four. 
His  name's  on  the  articles,  Mr.  Woywod?" 

"It  is;  John  Smith.  I  witnessed  his  signature.  He 
couldn't  write  at  the  time,  so  someone  held  his  hand  an'  he 
made  his  mark." 

"This  is  an  outrage,"  roared  Beekman.  "What  became 
of  my  watch  and  clothes?" 

"You  had  nothin'  but  what  you've  got  on  now  when  you 
came  aboard.  Am  I  right,  cap'n?" 

"You  are,  sir." 

"So  you  see  there's  nothin'  for  you  to  do  but  turn  to  an* 
behave  yourself  an'  obey  orders.  When  the  ship  reaches 
Vladivostok,  an'  we  pays  off,  you  can  take  your  discharge 
an'  go  where  you  please." 

"I'll  give  you  a  thousand  dollars  tq  go  back  to  New  York 
and  land  me." 

The  captain  grinned.  Taking  their  cue  from  him,  Mr. 
Woywod  and  Mr.  Salver  exploded  with  laughter. 


Up  Against  It  Hard  77 

"You  might  as  well  make  it  ten  thousand,  while  you're 
about  it." 

"I  will  make  it  ten  thousand,"  said  Beekman,  desperately. 

"Nonsense !" 

"Well,  then,  will  you  trans-ship  me  to  some  vessel  bound 
for  New  York?" 

"We're  short  handed,  sir,"  put  in  Woywod. 

"Couldn't  think  of  it,"  said  the  captain,  who,  of  course, 
disbelieved  in  toto  Beekman's  highly  improbable  story. 

This  was  the  richest  and  most  extravagant  tale  he  had 
ever  listened  to.  To  do  him  justice,  every  voyage  he  had 
ever  sailed  had  produced  someone  who  strove  to  get  out  of 
the  ship  by  urging  some  wildly  improbable  excuse  for  his 
being  there. 

"Well,  sir,  if  you  won't  do  that,  I  suppose  Colon  will  be 
your  first  port  of  call,  and  you  are  going  through  the 
Panama  Canal.  Let  me  get  on  the  end  of  the  cable  there 
and  I'll  get  you  orders  from  Mr.  Maynard  himself." 

"I  might  be  inclined  to  do  that,"  said  the  captain  face 
tiously,  "but  the  canal  is  blocked  by  another  slide  in  the 
Culebra  cut,  an'  we're  goin'  around  the  Horn." 

"Don't  you  touch  anywhere?" 

"Some  South  Sea  island  for  vegetables  an'  water,  mebbe, 
but  no  place  where  there's  a  cable,  if  I  can  help  it.  When 
I  takes  my  departure  I  don't  want  nobody  interferin'  with 
me  an'  sendin'  orders  after  me." 

"Is  there  a  wireless  on  the  ship  ?" 

"No.  Now,  if  you've  finished  your  questioning  perhaps 
you'll  allow  me  to  say  a  word  or  two." 

"An*  you  may  be  very  thankful  to  the  cap'n  for  his 
kind  treatment,  for  I  never  seed  him  so  agreeable  to  a  man 


78  By  the  World  Forgot 

try  in'  to  sojer  out  of  work  an'  shirk  his  job  afore,"  said 
Woywod. 

"Jestice,  Mr.  Woywod,  an'  fair  treatment,  even  to  the 
common  sailor,  is  my  motto.  As  long  as  they  obey  orders, 
they've  got  nothin'  to  fear  from  me,  an'  that  goes  for  you, 
Smith." 

"Beekman,"  insisted  the  young  man. 

"Smith  it  was,  Smith  it  is,  Smith  it  will  be.  That's  the 
first  order.  Now,  I'll  give  you  a  little  advice.  Mr.  Woywod 
and  Mr.  Salver  is  among  the  gentlest  officers  I  ever  sailed 
with,  so  long  as  they  ain't  crossed.  You  turn  to  an'  do 
what  you're  told  or  you'll  git  it  constantly;  fist,  rope's 
end,  belay'n  pin,  sea  boots,  or  whatever  comes  handiest,  an' 
if  you're  obstinate  enough,  an'  if  it's  serious  enough,  a 
charge  of  mutiny,  an'  double  irons.  Understand  ?" 

Beekman  nodded;  the  captain's  meaning  was  clear. 

"Go  for'ard,  now,  an'  remember,  mutiny  means  a  term 
in  prison  at  the  end  of  the  voyage,  an'  mebbe  worse.  How 
ever  you  come  aboard,  you're  here,  an'  bein'  here,  you  got 
to  obey  orders  or  take  the  consequences." 

"I  protest  against  this  outrage.  I'll  have  the  law.  I'll 
bring  you  to  justice." 

"Belay  that,"  said  the  captain,  more  or  less  indifferently. 
"It  don't  git  you  nowhere.  If  you  are  well  advised,  3rou'll 
heed  my  suggestions,  that's  all." 

Beekman  was  absolutely  helpless.  There  was  nothing 
that  he  could  do.  Although  more  angry  and  more  resent 
ful  than  ever,  he  fully  realized  his  impotency.  He  turned 
to  go  forward.  Bill  Woywod  stopped  him.  The  passion 
that  the  mate  saw  in  Beekman's  face,  as  he  fairly  gritted  his 
teeth  at  him,  startled  him  a  little.  Most  liars  and  malingerers 


Up  'Against  It  Hard  79 

did  not  take  it  that  way.  They  accepted  the  inevitable  with 
more  or  less  grace. 

"You're  in  my  watch,"  said  Woywod. 

"More's  the  pity." 

"An'  it  happens  to  be  the  watch  below.  One  bell  has  jest 
struck ;  four-thirty.  The  watch  below  takes  the  deck  at  four 
bells;  six  o'clock  for  the  second  dogwatch.  I'll  give  you 
till  then  to  think  about  it.  If  you  don't  turn  to  then  with 
the  rest  an'  do  a  man's  duty,  by  God,  you'll  suffer  for  it." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  ANVIL  MUST  TAKE  THE  POUNDING 

BEEKMAN  had  never  thought  so  hard  in  his  life  as  he 
did  in  the  next  hour  and  a  half.  Try  as  he  would,  he 
could  see  no  way  out  of  the  hideous  impasse  into  which  fate 
had  thrust  him.  He  had  not  the  faintest  idea  that  his  situ 
ation  was  caused  by  the  treachery  of  his  friend.  No  sus 
picion  of  betrayal  entered  his  mind.  He  was  certain  it  was 
simply  the  result  of  accident,  and  no  one  was  to  blame  except 
himself. 

He  had  got  beastly  drunk  after  that  dinner.  He  had 
driven  down  town  with  Harnash.  They  had  stopped  on  the 
way.  They  had  finally  separated.  He  had  been  assaulted, 
robbed,  and  probably  left  senseless  from  drink  and  the 
beating  he  had  received.  He  hoped  fervently  that  he  had 
put  up  a  good  fight  before  being  beaten  into  insensibility. 
Some  crimp  had  picked  him  up,  stripped  him  of  his  clothes, 
put  him  into  these  filthy  rags,  and  sent  him  aboard  the  ship. 
By  a  legal  mockery  which  would  yet  suffice,  he  had  signed 
the  articles.  There  was  no  way  he  could  convince  the  cap 
tain  of  the  truth  of  his  story.  Unless  stress  of  weather  or 
accident  drove  the  ship  to  make  port  somewhere,  he  could 
communicate  with  nobody  for  six  months,  or  until  they 
dropped  anchor  at  Vladivostok.  He  was  a  prisoner.  Neither 
by  physical  force  nor  by  mental  alertness  and  ability  could 
he  alter  that  fact  or  change  conditions. 

80 


The  Anvil  Must  Take  the  Pounding       81 

Fantastic  schemes  came  into  his  mind,  of  course ;  among 
them  the  organization  of  the  crew,  a  mutiny,  the  seizure  of 
the  ship.  But  that  would  not  be  possible  unless  conditions 
on  the  ship  became  absolutely  unbearable;  and  even  if  it 
were  practicable,  in  all  probability  he  might  be  leading  the 
whole  body  to  death  and  disaster.  Beekman  knew  some 
thing  about  the  organization  and  administration  of  the 
Inter-Oceanic  Trading  Company.  He  knew  their  ships  were 
always  well  found  and  well  provisioned.  Given  a  well-found 
ship  and  plenty  of  good  food  to  eat,  and  a  sailor  will  stand 
almost  anything. 

Besides,  most  of  these  men  knew  fully  the  character  of 
Captain  Fish,  Mr.  Woywod,  and  Mr.  Salver.  They  were  as 
hard  as  iron,  and  as  quick  as  lightning,  and  as  ruthless  as 
the  devil  himself,  but  if  the  men  did  what  they  were  told, 
and  did  it  quickly,  and  did  it  well,  they  got  off  with  abuse 
only,  and  a  comparative  freedom  from  manhandling. 

All  three  officers  were  fine  seamen.  They  could  handle  a 
ship  in  any  wind  or  sea  as  a  skilled  chauffeur  handles  a  well- 
known  car  in  heavy  traffic,  and  it  is  a  great  deal  harder  to 
handle  a  ship  than  a  car,  especially  a  sailing  ship.  Blow 
high,  blow  low,  come  what  would,  these  men  were  equal  to 
any  demand,  and  all  that  could  be  got  out  of  timber  and 
cordage  and  canvas,  to  say  nothing  of  steel  wire,  these 
men  could  get.  Also  they  were  drivers.  They  would  carry 
to'gall'n'ts'l's  when  other  ships  dared  show  no  more  than  a 
close-reefed  tops'l.  Speed  was  a  prime  requisite  with  the 
owners.  The  SusqueTianna,  in  particular,  had  to  justify  her 
use,  and  Captain  Fish  took  a  natural  and  pardonable  pride 
in  striving  for  the  steamer  record.  All  this  pleased  the  men. 
Sailors  will  put  up  with  much  from  a  skillful,  energetic, 


82  By  the  World  Forgot 

alert,  daring,  and  successful  officer.  They  made  quick  runs 
and  drew  high  pay.  Many  of  them  had  been  attached  to  the 
Susquehanna  since  she  had  been  commissioned.  They  had 
learned  so  to  comport  themselves  as  to  avoid  as  much  trouble 
as  possible. 

Beekman  was  in  the  receipt  of  not  a  little  rough,  but 
common-sense,  advice  from  the  watch  below  in  the  forecastle. 
His  own  better  judgment  told  him  that  the  unpalatable 
advice  must  be  followed.  Fish,  Woywod,  and  Salver  had  it 
in  their  power  to  harry  him  to  death.  His  spirit,  neverthe 
less,  rebelled  against  any  such  knuckling  down  as  would  be 
required.  At  three  bells  in  the  first  dogwatch  one  of  the 
ship's  boys  came  to  him  with  a  message. 

"Are  you  John  Smith?"  he  said,  stopping  before  him. 

Beekman  took  his  first  lesson  then  and  there.  His  inclina 
tion  was,  as  it  had  been,  to  shout  his  own  name  to  the  trucks 
whenever  he  was  questioned,  but  what  was  the  use  ?  He  bit 
his  lips  and  nodded. 

"That's  what  they  call  me." 

"Well,  Mr.  Gersey  wants  to  see  you." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"He's  the  ship's  Bo's'n." 

"Am  I  at  the  beck  and  call  of  everybody  on  the  ship?" 

"Look  here,  young  feller,"  said  an  old,  down-east  sailor 
named  Templin,  who,  on  account  of  his  age  and  experience, 
had  been  made  the  Bo's'n's  mate  of  the  port  watch.  "You've 
had  a  lot  of  advice  throwed  into  you,  which  you  may  or  may 
not  foller.  This  last  is  worth  'bout  as  much  as  all  the  rest. 
The  Bo's'n  ain't  no  certificated  officer.  He  don't  live  aft. 
He's  got  a  position  sort  o'  'twixt  fo'c's'l  an'  quarter-deck, 
but  there's  no  man  aboard  who  can  do  more  for  you  or  agin 


The  Anvil  Must  Take  the  Pounding        83 

you  than  him.  You  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  a  friendless  damn 
fool.  We  don't  none  of  us  believe  your  yarn,  but  we  sym 
pathize  with  you  because  we've  been  in  the  same  sitooation, 
all  of  us.  Jim  Gersey  is  a  square  man.  You  ain't  had  no 
chance  to  run  athwart  his  hawse,  an'  like  enough  he  wants 
to  do  you  a  good  turn.  You'd  better  go,  an'  go  a-runnin'." 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Beekman,  rising  and  following 
the  boy  to  the  boatswain's  cabin,  right  abaft  the  forecastle. 

"Look  here,  Smith  — "  began  that  grizzled  and  veteran, 
mariner,  who  had  followed  the  sea  all  his  life,  and  looked  it. 

"Smith  is  not  my  name." 

"In  course,  it  ain't,  but  it's  the  name  you'll  go  by  on  this 
ship.  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  every  man  I  ever  seed 
articled  on  a  ship  without  his  consent  got  named  Smith  or 
Jones.  I've  knowed  some  mighty  respectable  people  o'  them 
names,  an'  I  don't  see  why  they've  got  to  be  saddled  with  all 
the  offscourin's  o'  creation,  meanin'  no  offense,"  said  the 
rough,  but  somehow  kindly,  old  man.  "Smith  it  is, 
an'  —  " 

"Smith  goes,"  said  Beekman  briefly.  "What's  my  first 
name,  if  I  may  ask?" 

"Reads  'John'  on  the  articles." 

"John's  as  good  as  any." 

"Now,  you're  takin'  things  in  the  right  spirit.  I  heerd 
what  you  said  to  the  officers,  an'  I  seen  how  you  got  involved 
with  Mr.  Woywod.  I  sized  you  up  good  and  plenty. 
Whether  your  yarn  is  true  or  not,  an'  I  ain't  passin'  no 
judgment  on  that,  it's  evident  that  you  ain't  used  to  the  sea, 
that  you  ain't  used  to  rough  work,  I  means,  an'  this  yere  is 
new  experience  for  you.  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  father, 
an'  it^jest  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  thing  I'd  like  to 


84 


remember  when  I  quits  the  sea  an'  settles  down  on  a  farm 
I  got  my  eyes  on,  that  I  took  a  young  feller  an'  give  him  a 
friendly  hand  an'  a  word  o'  warnin',  an'  that's  why  I  sent 
for  you." 

"I  appreciate  it  more  than  I  can  tell.  As  man  to  man,  I 
assure  you  that  my  story  is  absolutely  true.  If  I  ever  get 
out  of  this  alive,  I'll  remember  your  conduct." 

"  'T  ain't  for  that  I'm  tryin'  to  steer  you  a  straight 
course." 

"I  believe  it." 

"You've  got  to  knuckle  down,  take  your  medicine,  turn 
to  an'  do  your  dooty  like  a  man.  There  ain't  three  harder 
men  on  the  ocean  to  sail  with  than  the  old  man  an'  them  two 
mates.  I've  been  on  many  ships,  an'  under  many  officers, 
but  there  couldn't  be  a  worse  hell  ship  than  this  one'd  be  if 
the  men  didn't  knuckle  down.  You  can't  talk  back ;  you 
can't  even  look  sideways.  You  got  to  be  on  the  jump  all  the 
time.  You  got  to  do  what  you're  told,  an'  you  got  to  do  it 
right.  Tryin'  won't  git  you  nowhere.  It's  doin'  it.  They're 
hell  on  every  natural  mistake." 

"Why  do  men  submit  to  it  ?  How  can  they  get  a  crew  ?" 
asked  Beekman  fiercely.  "I  would  almost  rather  die  than 
stand  it." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,  sonny,"  said  the  loquacious  old  boat 
swain  quickly.  "If  what  you  say  is  true,  an'  I  ain't  sayin' 
it  ain't,  you've  got  somethin'  to  live  for,  an'  even  if  it  ain't 
true,  you've  probably  got  something  to  live  for  ashore.  If 
you're  a  fugitive  from  jestice,  or  anything  o'  that  kind, 
which  we  gits  'em  of'en,  there's  plenty  of  other  lands  where 
a  man  can  disappear  an'  make  a  new  start.  An'  men,"  he 
went  on,  reverting  to  the  other's  question,  "are  willin'  to 


The  Anvil  Must  Take  the  Pounding        85 

ship  on  the  Susquehcmna,  an'  do  it  over  an*  over  agin, 
because  she's  well  found,  the  grub's  A-l,  she's  a  lucky  ship, 
an'  makes  quick  passages.  The  pay  is  high,  an'  the  officers 
are  prime  seamen,  every  inch  o'  them.  If  you  do  your  dooty, 
if  you  do  it  right,  if  you  don't  make  no  mistakes,  you'll  git 
plenty  o'  hard  language  an'  black  looks,  but  that's  all.  If 
you  don't  they'll  haze  you  until  your  spirit's  broke,  aye, 
until  your  life's  gone.  I'll  do  it  myself,"  he  added  frankly. 
"I  ain't  talkin'  to  you  now  as  the  Bo's'n  of  the  ship,  but  jest 
as  man  to  man ;  as  an  old  man  advisin'  a  young  one.  If  I 
find  you  shirkin',  or  sojerin',  or  puttin'  on  any  airs,  or 
playin'  any  tricks,  I  won't  be  far  behind  Woywod  and 
Salver  an'  the  old  man.  That's  all." 

"Mr.  Gersey  —  " 

"Cut  out  'Mister.'    I  ain't  no  quarter-deck  officer." 

"Well,  then,  Bo's'n.  I've  thought  it  over.  I'll  accept 
your  advice." 

"It's  the  only  thing  you  can  do." 

"That's  true,  and  the  only  reason  I  do  it.  But,  by 
heaven,  if  I  ever  get  ashore,  and  if  I  ever  get  Woywod 
ashore,  I'll  pay  him  for  it." 

"There's  many  would  like  to  help  you  at  that  job," 
answered  Gersey;  "but  the  trouble  is  to  git  him  ashore. 
After  ship's  crews  is  paid  off,  they  generally  scatters  an' 
disappears,  an'  sailormen's  memories  is  short.  They  count 
on  gittin'  it  hard  from  everybody,  anyway.  They've  been 
trained  that  way  from  the  beginnin'.  They  grow  so  for 
getful  that  after  they  get  on  another  ship  there's  nothin' 
too  good  to  say  of  the  last  one  in  comparison.  Do  you 
know  anything  about  sailorin'?" 

"I  don't  know  any  knot-and-splice  seamanship,  if  that's 


By  the  World  Forgot 


what  you  mean;  but  I'm  a  navigator,  and  I  can  sail  my 
own  yacht.  I  can  do  a  trick  at  the  wheel.  I've  never  been 
on  a  full-rigged  ship." 

"What  was  your  yacht  ?" 

"A  steamer,  of  course." 

"Show  any  canvas?" 

"Not  to  speak  of." 

"Ever  been  aloft?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I'll  do  my  best  to  train  you.  You've  got  an  awful 
hard  course  to  steer.  You  began  bad  by  gittin'  the  mate 
down  on  you,  an'  I've  no  doubt  but  what  he'll  be  layin'  for 
you  all  the  time,  anyway." 

"So  long  as  he  keeps  his  hands  off  me,  I'll  give  him  no 
further  chance  for  trouble." 

"An'  if  he  don't  ?"  asked  the  boatswain  impressively. 

"If  he  goes  to  that  length  —  " 

" You'll  have  to  stand  it  jest  the  same.  Mutiny  on  the 
high  seas  is  the  worst  crime  a  sailor  can  be  found  guilty  of. 
Everybody  ashore  is  on  the  side  of  the  officers  —  courts,  an* 
jestices,  an'  juries." 

"I'd  like  to  get  that  brute  in  a  court,"  said  Beekman 
savagely.  "I'd  almost  be  willing  to  mutiny  to  do  it." 

"Take  my  advice  on  this  p'int,  too,"  said  Gersey 
earnestly.  "The  less  a  sailor  man  has  to  do  with  law  sharks 
an*  courts  ashore,  the  better  off  he  finds  hisself ." 

Thus  it  happened  that  when  four  bells  were  struck,  and 
all  the  port  watch  were  called,  Beekman  presented  himself 
with  the  rest, 

"So  you've  decided  to  turn  to,  have  you,  you  dirty  rag 
amuffin?"  roared  Woywod  as  the  watch  came  tumbling  aft. 


The  ^Anvil  Must  Take  the  Pounding       87 

"I  have." 

"Say,  'sir,' "  cried  the  mate. 

He  had  a  piece  of  rattan  in  his  hand,  and  he  struck  Beek- 
man  a  blow  on  the  arm.  The  hardest  word  he  ever  ejacu 
lated  in  his  life  was  that  "sir"  which  he  threw  out  between 
his  teeth. 

"That's  well,"  said  Woywod.  "Now,  you  assaulted  me; 
you've  been  technically  guilty  of  mutiny,  but  I'll  forgit 
that.  You  turn  to  an'  do  your  work  like  a  man,  an'  you'll 
have  nothin'  to  fear  from  me,  but  if  I  catch  you  sojerin', 
I'll  cut  your  heart  out." 

Beekman  couldn't  trust  himself  to  speak.  He  stood 
rooted  to  his  place  on  the  deck  until  Woywod  turned  away. 
It  was  singular  how  the  environment  of  a  ship  turned  a 
fairly  decent  man  ashore  into  a  wolf,  a  pitiless  brute,  at  sea. 
Woywod  knew  no  other  way  to  command  men.  The  men 
with  whom  he  had  been  thrown  knew  no  other  way  to  be 
commanded.  The  mate  had  completely  forgotten  his  friend's 
instructions  to  treat  Beekman  with  unusual  consideration. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Woywod  was  harder  on  Beekman  in 
his  own  heart  and  in  his  intentions  than  on  any  other  man 
for  several  reasons. 

Beekman  had  faced  him.  He  had  refused  to  be  cowed. 
He  was  not  even  cowed  now.  Beekman  had  struck  him  and 
almost  knocked  him  down.  Beekman  was  a  gentleman.  In 
every  look,  in  every  movement,  he  showed  his  superiority 
over,  and  his  contempt  for,  Woywod.  Harnash  had  arrived 
at  the  same  social  degree  as  Beekman,  but  he  was  careful, 
because  of  his  old  affection,  to  treat  Woywod  exactly  as  he 
had  treated  him  in  days  gone  by.  Woywod  knew  —  he  was 
not  without  shrewdness  —  that  he  was  not  on  Harnash's 


By  the  World  Forgot 


social  level,  or  even  upon  an  intellectual  parity  with  him,  but 
Harnash  never  allowed  the  slightest  suggestion  of  inequality 
to  appear  in  their  intercourse,  because  he  really  liked  the 
man.  When  a  man  of  inferior  temper,  quality,  and  charac 
ter  is  placed  in  irresponsible  charge  of  a  man  who  surpasses 
him  in  everything,  the  tendency  to  tyrannize  is  almost  irre 
sistible.  In  Woywod's  mind,  he  himself  was,  somehow, 
identified  with  justice  and  right.  He  was  engaged  in  serv 
ing  a  woman  who,  to  his  perverted  apprehension,  was  to  be 
forced  into  a  marriage  with  a  man  she  hated,  and  that  man 
was  before  him,  in  his  power. 

Woywod  was  not  all  bad.  He  was  the  last  exponent  of  a 
certain  kind  of  officer ;  a  very  bad  kind,  it  must  be  admitted, 
but  an  efficient  kind,  as  well.  There  were  certain  rudimen 
tary  principles  of  justice  and  fair  dealing  in  him,  and  some 
of  those  whom  he  abused  worst  realized  that,  and  stood  for 
more  from  him  than  they  would  otherwise;  but  in  the  case 
of  Beekman,  both  justice  and  fair  play  were  in  abeyance  for 
the  reasons  mentioned.  Woywod  was  determined  to  break 
his  spirit,  and  to  ride  him  down,  and  Beekman  sensed  that. 
It  was  to  be  a  fight  between  him  and  the  mate  from  New 
York  to  Vladivostok,  with  every  advantage  on  earth  on  the 
side  of  the  mate. 

Beekman  had  as  quick  a  temper  as  any  man  living.  He 
had  never  been  forced  to  control  it  much.  The  world  had 
given  free  passage  everywhere  to  him,  backed  as  he  had  been 
by  those  things  before  which  men  bow  down.  Whether  he 
could  control  himself,  whether  he  could  submit  to  the  end, 
he  did  not  dare  to  say.  He  did  not  hope  that  he  could,  but 
at  least  he  would  give  it  a  fair  trial.  In  his  secret  heart  he 
prayed  that  he  might  control  himself,  for,  if  he  did  not,  he 


The  Anvil  Must  Take  the  Pounding        89 

was  sure  he  would  kill  the  mate  by  fair  means  or  foul.  He 
wanted  very  much  to  live,  if  for  no  other  thing  than  to 
justify  himself  in  the  eyes  of  Stephanie  Maynard,  whose 
present  opinion  of  him  he  could  well  imagine. 

He  had  not  been  the  most  ardent  of  lovers.  He  was  not 
the  most  ardent  of  lovers  now.  It  was  pride  rather  than 
passion  that  made  him  crave  that  opportunity  for  justify 
ing  himself,  although  he  deluded  himself  with  the  idea  that 
his  heart  was  fairly  breaking  on  account  of  her.  Indeed, 
a  simple  reflection  might  have  convinced  him  of  the  falsity 
of  that  proposition,  because  the  predominant  emotions  that 
mastered  him  were  hatred  of  Woywod  and  longing  for 
revenge. 

What  would  have  been  those  emotions  if  he  had  known 
that  Woywod  was  but  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  another, 
and  that  other  a  rival  for  the  affections  of  his  promised 
wife,  and  one  who  had  passed  as  his  best  friend? 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  GAME  AND  THE  END 

HAVING  chosen  his  line  of  conduct,  Beekman,  with  a 
strength  of  will  and  purpose  of  which  no  one  would 
have  suspected  him,  adhered  to  it  rigidly,  and  the  very  fact 
that  he  was  unable  to  goad  him  into  revolt  inflamed  the 
passion  and  developed  the  animosity  and  hatred  of  Woywod. 
The  mate  was  perfectly  willing  and,  indeed,  anxious  to 
manhandle  Beekman,  but  that  little  fundamental  streak  of 
fair  play  made  him  keep  his  hands  off  when  he  had  no  cause. 
To  be  sure,  he  sought  diligently  for  cause  and  occasion,  and 
that  he  did  not  find  it,  angered  him  the  more. 

Beekman  had  never  been  face  to  face  with  a  very  difficult 
situation  of  any  kind.  Life  had  been  too  easy  for  him. 
There  had  been  no  special  demands  upon  his  character  by 
any  very  pressing  emergency,  and  perhaps  that  made  him 
study  the  position  in  which  he  found  himself  more  carefully. 
Among  other  things,  he  decided  to  make  himself  popular 
with  the  crew,  and  to  do  it  by  gaining  their  respect.  Unlike 
Ancient  Pistol,  he  would  be  by  no  means  "base,  common,  and 
popular,"  if  popularity  was  to  be  procured  in  that  way  only. 
He  had  always  been  acclaimed  a  leader,  in  athletics  at  any 
rate,  both  in  the  prep  school,  in  the  university,  and  after 
ward  among  his  friends  and  acquaintances. 

Without  stooping  to  their  level,  without  truckling  to  their 
prejudices  by  promises  or  bribery  that  is,  he  achieved  that 

90 


The  Game  and  the  End  91 

object.  He  was  easily  the  most  popular  man  on  the  ship. 
And  it  was  no  small  tribute  to  his  adaptability  that  one  of 
his  quality  and  station  could  gain  the  universal  approval 
of  so  many  men  so  radically  different.  In  little  ways  that 
fact  presently  became  apparent  to  the  quarter  deck,  and 
Woywod  resented  that  especially.  It  irked  him  exceedingly 
that  a  man  against  whom  he  imagined  he  had  a  just  cause 
for  grievance,  and  who  had,  from  his  point  of  view,  entirely 
merited  his  displeasure,  should  be  upheld  and  acclaimed  by 
the  rest  of  the  men  over  whom  he  ruled  with  iron  severity. 
This  was  an  affront  to  him,  and  an  additional  cause  for 
resentment,  not  to  say  hatred. 

In  all  this,  Beekman  had  not  changed  his  opinion  of 
Woywod  in  the  least  degree.  In  return,  he  hated  him  with 
a  good,  healthy,  genuine  hatred  that  grew  with  every  pass 
ing  hour.  It  became  increasingly  hard  for  him  to  control 
himself  and  to  follow  out  his  course  in  the  face  of  Woywod' s 
constant  endeavors  to  arouse  his  temper.  Indeed,  quick  and 
passionate  by  inheritance,  and  by  lack  of  restraint  since 
childhood,  Beekman  found  himself  marvelling  at  his  own 
self-control. 

If  it  had  not  been  that  his  course  so  thoroughly  angered 
the  mate  as  in  a  certain  sense  to  enable  Beekman  to  get  even 
with  him,  he  would  have  lost  that  control  again  and  again. 
As  it  was,  his  soul  writhed  under  the  sneers,  the  insults,  the 
brutal  blackguarding,  the  foul  language  of  Woywod,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  exactions,  the  unfair  and  almost  impos 
sible  tasks  that  were  heaped  upon  him.  And  Salver,  taking 
his  cue  from  his  superior,  did  his  little  best  to  make  life  a 
burden  to  Beekman.  Grim,  stern,  ruthless  Peleg  Fish  rather 
enjoyed  it,  too.  With  natural  keenness,  the  master  of  the 


92 


ship  realized  that  it  was  a  battle  and  a  game  between  the  two 
men,  and  he  delighted  in  it  as  a  sporting  proposition. 

Perhaps  the  popularity  Beekman  had  gained  among  the 
crew  helped  him  to  bear  these  things.  A  few  of  them  were 
quick  enough  mentally  to  look  beneath  the  surface.  Jim 
Gersey  was  of  that  small  number.  The  young  man  had  com 
pletely  gained  that  old  man's  confidence.  Beekman  had  seen 
the  uselessness  of  persisting  in  his  story,  and  he  had  made  no 
further  references  to  it  among  the  crew  after  that  first  day, 
but  with  Gersey  he  made  an  exception.  The  old  boatswain 
was  shrewd  and  worldly  wise  in  a  guileless  sort  of  way.  The 
two  had  many  long  talks  together,  and  the  younger  had  at 
last  succeeded  in  convincing  the  older  of  the  truth  of  his 
tale.  Without  seeming  to  do  it,  the  boatswain  helped  the 
newcomer  through  many  a  difficult  situation,  and  by 
ostentatiously  joining  in  the  bullying  he  got  from  the 
quarter  deck,  and  by  keeping  secret  his  friendship,  it  was 
not  suspected  aft. 

Beekman  had  no  suspicion  as  to  how  he  got  on  the  ship. 
He  supposed  his  presence  was  due  to  blind  fate.  He  knew 
that  once  he  could  get  on  the  end  of  a  telegraphic  cable 
he  could  free  himself  from  his  detestable  position,  but  he 
shrewdly  suspected  that  if  there  were  any  way  to  prevent 
that,  Woywod,  who  acted  with  the  consent  and  approval  of 
Fish,  could  be  depended  upon  to  stop  it.  Beekman  had 
talked  that  matter  over  with  Gersey,  and  he  had  given  the 
boatswain  an  address  and  a  message  which  the  old  man  had 
laboriously  committed  to  memory.  If  Beekman  were  kept 
on  the  ship,  Gersey  would  send  the  cable  from  Vladivostok, 
or  from  whatever  civilized  port  they  made.  For  the  rest, 
with  a  reckless  disregard  of  expenditure,  Beekman  discarded 


The  Game  and  the  End  93 

his  filthy  rags,  and  comfortably  outfitted  himself  from  the 
ship's  well-equipped  slop-chest,  his  extravagant  outlay  being 
deducted  from  his  able  seaman's  pay,  for  which,  of  course, 
he  cared  nothing. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  was  well  found,  and  the  men 
were  well  fed,  and  the  passage  was  a  quick  one,  and  the 
ship  fairly  comfortable,  by  the  time  the  cruise  drew  on  to 
its  end,  the  ship  was  usually  a  smouldering  hell,  and  this 
voyage  was  no  exception. 

The  men  had  been  driven  hard.  A  succession  of  westerly 
gales  off  Cape  Horn  had  kept  them  beating  about  that 
dreadful  point  for  nearly  two  weeks,  and  even  after  they 
had  rounded  it,  for  once  the  Pacific  belied  its  name.  The 
wind  shifted  after  they  passed  the  fiftieth  parallel,  so  they 
had  to  face  a  long  beat  up  to  the  line.  Gale  succeeded  gale. 
Such  weather  was  unprecedented.  It  had  never  been  heard 
of  by  the  oldest  and  most  experienced  seamen  on  board. 
The  men  were  worn  out ;  their  nerves  on  ragged  edge.  The 
severe  straining  the  ship  had  got  had  made  her  take  in  water, 
not  seriously,  but  at  a  sufficiently  rapid  rate  to  require  a 
good  deal  of  pumping.  The  steam  pump  broke  down  for  a 
time  and  the  crew  had  to  man  the  hand  pumps.  Their  nerves 
were  on  edge  and  raw,  and  the  officers  ground  them  down 
worse  than  ever. 

If  Beekman  had  not  improved  in  his  physical  condition, 
he  could  not  have  stood  his  share  of  the  work.  He  had  been 
an  athlete  at  college,  not  heavy  enough  to  buck  the  center 
on  a  football  team,  but  a  marvelously  speedy  end,  and  a 
champion  at  the  lighter  forms  of  athletics  demanding  agil 
ity,  alertness,  and  skill.  In  his  after-college  life,  athletics 
had  continued  to  interest  him  if  desultorily.  He  was  still  an 


By  the  World  Forgot 


A-l  tennis  player  and  a  dashing  horseman,  but  not  much 
else. 

With  the  hard  work,  the  coarse  but  substantial  food,  and 
at  first  the  regular  hours,  he  developed  amazingly.  He  got 
to  be  as  hard  as  nails.  He  had  always  been  a  fair  boxer. 
It  was  a  science  about  which- Woywod  knew  nothing,  and 
although  the  mate  was  twenty  pounds  heavier  and  several 
inches  taller,  to  say  nothing  of  broader  shouldered,  than 
Beekman,  the  latter  began  to  feel  that  in  a  twenty-foot  ring 
with  foul  fighting  barred,  he  could  master  the  officer.  There 
was  no  possibility  of  a  meeting  of  that  kind,  however,  so 
the  two,  under  the  varying  positions  of  an  unusually  trying 
cruise,  fought  the  battle  of  will  and  wit  down  one  ocean  and 
half-way  up  the  other,  until  the  break  came,  the  marvel 
being  not  that  it  came  when  it  did,  but  that  it  had  been 
postponed  so  long. 

One  of  the  members  of  the  crew  was  a  young  Dutchman 
named  Jacob  Wramm.  He  was  not  exactly  half-witted.  He 
could  hardly  be  called  defective,  even,  but  he  was  a  dull, 
slow-thinking,  very  stupid  lad  who  had  been  shipped  by  the 
crimp  as  an  A.  B.,  but  who  would  never  be  rated  higher  than 
a  landsman.  Beekman,  who  rapidly  learned  knot-and-splice 
seamanship,  and  all  the  ordinary  and  extraordinary  duties 
of  a  sailor;  who  could  get  to  the  main  royal  yard  or  the 
flying  jibboom  end  as  quickly  as  any  man  on  the  ship; 
who  could  pass  a  weather  earring  in  a  howling  gale  as 
securely  as  the  most  accomplished  seaman;  who  could  do 
his  trick  at  the  wheel  and  hold  her  up  to  her  course  against 
a  bucking,  jumping  head  sea  with  the  best  quartermaster 
afloat,  endeavored  to  teach  and  train  Wramm  in  the  niceties 
of  the  sailor's  art.  He  made  some  progress  with  him  until 


The  Game  and  the  End  95 

Salver  caught  him  instructing  the  stupid  Dutchman,  who 
was  in  the  second  mate's  watch.  He  mentioned  it  casually 
in  the  cabin  to  Woywod,  and  the  latter  at  once  found  a 
new  object  upon  which  to  vent  his  spleen  and  to  provoke 
Beekman. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Wramm  that  he  was  in  the  star 
board  watch.  It  was  only  when  all  hands  were  called  and 
Salver  went  forward,  Woywod  taking  charge  amidships, 
where  Wramm  was  stationed  at  the  main  mast,  that  he  got 
a  chance  at  him.  The  slightest  blunder  on  the  part  of  the 
Dutchman  was  treated  as  a  crime.  He  was  rope's  ended, 
rattaned,  kicked,  beaten  like  a  dog.  Only  a  certain  slow, 
stubborn  obstinacy  and  determination  in  his  disposition 
kept  the  unfortunate  man  from  jumping  overboard. 
Probably  if  Beekman  had  been  in  the  same  watch  with 
Wramm  and  both  had  been  under  Woy  wod's  command,  some 
thing  would  have  happened  sooner,  but  except  when  all 
hands  were  called,  Beekman  was  never  near  Wramm, 
and  even  then  Beekman's  station  was  aloft  in  taking  in 
sail. 

Wramm  was  not  trusted  on  the  yards.  His  duties  were 
at  the  fife-rails  around  the  masts  where  the  various  ropes 
which  led  from  above  were  belayed.  It  was  a  responsible 
position,  but  Beekman  had  gone  over  and  over  every  bit 
of  every  rope  belayed  to  the  iron  pins  in  the  fife-rails  with 
him.  When  Wramm  once  got  a  thing  in  his  head  after  a 
slow  process,  it  was  apt  to  stay  there,  and  the  Dutchman 
finally  became  letter  perfect.  He  could  put  his  hands  on 
the  various  sheets,  halliards,  clewlines,  buntlines,  and  others 
unerringly  even  in  the  dark.  That  is,  he  could  if  he  were  let 
alone  and  not  hurried  unduly. 


96  By  the  World  Forgot 

One  night,  the  starboard  watch  being  on  deck  in  the 
midwatch,  at  four  bells,  or  two  in  the  morning,  the  port 
watch  was  called,  all  hands  being  necessary  for  the  taking 
in  of  sail.  As  usual,  Captain  Fish,  annoyed  beyond  measure 
at  his  bad  luck  and  the  head  winds,  had  been  holding  on  to 
take  advantage  of  a  favorable  slant  in  a  whole-sail  breeze, 
which  was  developing  into  a  hard  gale.  He  had  time  and 
distance  to  make  up  and  he  was  going  to  lose  no  opportunity 
with  either. 

As  the  wind  was  rising,  and  the  sea,  too,  he  had  remained 
on  deck  during  Salver's  watch,  and  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  watch  had  taken  in  the  royals  and  the  flying 
jib.  At  two  o'clock  the  captain,  staring  up  through  the 
darkness  at  the  jumping,  quivering  to'gall'nt  masts,  decided 
that  the  time  had  come  to  furl  the  light  canvas  and  take  a 
double  reef  in  the  tops'ls,  in  preparation  for  the  blow 
obviously  at  hand.  He  waited  so  long,  however,  before 
coming  to  this  decision,  that  he  realized  that  he  had  peril 
ously  little  time  left  in  which  to  get  the  canvas  off  her 
without  losing  a  sail  or  perhaps  a  spar  or  two. 

Like  every  man  of  his  temperament,  he  held  on  till  the 
last  minute  and  then  summoned  the  port  watch,  which  came 
tumbling  up  from  below  at  the  call  of  the  boatswain's  mate, 
to  find  Captain  Fish  storming  on  the  bridge  at  their  slowness* 
Salver  went  forward  to  the  forecastle  to  attend  to  the 
foremast.  Mr.  Woywod,  in  the  natural  bad  humor  that 
comes  to  any  one  who  is  awakened  from  a  sound  sleep  in 
the  only  four  hours  of  that  particular  night  appointed  for 
rest,  took  charge  of  the  main,  while  the  captain  himself 
looked  out  for  things  aft.  The  helm  was  shifted.  The  ship 
forced  up  into  the  wind  to  spill  the  canvas.  The  braces 


The  Game  and  the  End  97 

were  tended.  The  sheets  were  manned.  The  order  was 
given  to  round  in  and  settle  away. 

Wramm  was  the  last  man  to  get  to  his  station.  The  men 
not  stationed  at  some  place  of  observation  during  the  watch 
on  deck  had  snugged  down  in  such  places  as  they  could 
find  for  sleep  until  called.  Wramm  was  a  heavy  sleeper. 
He  had  not  been  feeling  well  and  had  been  awake  even 
during  his  watches  in  the  night  before.  He  slept  like  a 
log.  Woywod  saw  that  he  was  not  at  his  place  at  the  main 
fife-rail.  Just  before  the  order  was  given  for  the  light  yard 
and  topmen  to  lay  aloft  and  furl  and  reef,  Woywod,  raging 
like  a  lion,  discovered  Wramm  sleeping  in  the  lee  scuppers 
under  the  main  pin-rail.  He  savagely  kicked  him  awake, 
dragged  him  to  his  feet,  got  his  hand  on  his  throat,  shook 
him  like  a  rat,  and  finally  flung  him,  choked  and  half-dazed, 
against  the  fife-rail,  with  orders  for  him  to  look  alive  and 
stand  by  or  he  would  get  the  life  beaten  out  of  him. 

When  the  order  was  given  to  slack  away  the  main  to'gall'nt 
halliards,  the  slow-thinking,  confused  Dutchman  made  a 
grievous  mistake.  He  cast  off  and  eased  away  the  main 
top'sl  halliards,  the  descent  of  the  yard  began  just  as  the 
ship  fell  away  a  bit  under  the  pressure  of  a  heavy  sea. 
The  main  to'gall'nts'l  filled  again,  the  men  at  the  lee  and 
weather  braces,  supposing  everything  was  right,  easing  off 
and  rounding  in,  respectively,  until  the  yard  whirled  about, 
pointing  nearly  fore  and  aft.  The  starboard  to'gall'nt  sheet 
gave  way  first  under  the  drag  of  the  main  tops'l  yard,  but 
not  before  the  tremendous  pressure  of  the  wind  had  snapped 
the  to'gall'nt  mast  off  at  the  hounds.  There  was  a  crash 
above  in  the  darkness.  They  caught  a  glimpse  of  white 
cloud  toppling  overhead  and  streaming  out  in  the  darkness, 


98  By  the  World  Forgot 

and  then  the  mast  came  crashing  down  on  the  lee  side  of 
the  main  top  and  hung  there  threshing  wildly  about  in  the 
fierce  wind. 

When  the  main  topmen  were  sent  aloft  to  clear  away  the 
wreck,  the  tops'l  halliards  were  belayed  and  then  led  along 
the  deck  and  the  tops'l  hoisted  again.  For  once  on  the 
cruise  Beekman  was  not  at  his  station,  for  the  mate,  instantly 
divining  what  had  occurred,  as  every  experienced  man  on 
the  ship  had  done,  had  leaped  to  the  fife-rail,  with  a  roar 
of  rage,  and  had  struck  the  bewildered  Dutchman,  almost 
unaware  of  what  had  happened,  with  a  belaying  pin,  which 
he  drew  from  the  rail,  and  had  knocked  him  senseless  to  the 
deck.  Even  as  Woywod  rapidly  belayed  the  tops'l  halliards, 
which  Wramm  had  been  easing  off,  he  took  occasion  to  kick 
the  prostrate  man  violently  several  times,  and  one  of  the 
kicks  struck  him  on  the  j  aw  and  broke  it. 

Beekman,  stopping  with  one  foot  on  the  sheer  pole  of  the 
weather  main  shrouds,  had  seen  it  all.  The  reason  why  he 
had  not  gone  aloft  with  the  rest  was  because  he  had  instantly 
stepped  back  to  the  rail,  leaped  to  the  deck,  and  had  run 
to  the  prostrate  form  of  poor  Wramm,  which  he  had 
dragged  out  of  the  way  of  the  men,  who  had  seized  the 
halliards  at  the  mate's  call.  As  it  happened,  the  angry  mate 
had  struck  harder  than  he  had  intended.  Wramm's  skull 
was  fractured,  his  jaw  broken,  and  his  body  was  covered 
with  bruises  from  Woywod's  brutal  assault. 

When  the  wreck  was  cleared  away,  the  canvas  reduced, 
the  ship  made  snug,  and  the  watch  below  dismissed  for  the 
hour  of  rest  that  still  remained  to  them,  Woywod  came 
forward.  The  watch  had  taken  Wramm  into  the  forecastle 
and  laid  him  out  on  his  bunk. 


99 


"Where  is  that" — he  qualified  Wramm's  name  with  a 
string  of  oaths  and  expletives,  the  vileness  of  which  also 
characterized  him  typically  —  "who  caused  a  perfectly  good 
mainto'gall'nt  mast  to  carry  away?"  said  Woywod,  stop 
ping  halfway  down  the  ladder  leading  into  the  f  orepeak. 

There  was  a  low  murmur  from  the  watch  below,  a 
murmur  which  was  not  articulate,  but  which  nevertheless 
expressed  hate  as  well  as  the  growl  of  a  baited  animal  does. 
Woywod  was  no  coward.  He  was  afraid  of  nothing  on 
earth.  Bullies  are  sometimes  that  way,  in  spite  of  the 
proverb.  It  was  Beekman  who  spoke. 

"He's  here,  sir,"  he  began,  in  that  smooth,  even,  culti 
vated  voice  which  Woywod  hated  to  hear.  "I  think  his  skull 
is  fractured.  His  jaw  is  broken." 

"An'  a  good  thing,  too.  Perhaps  the  crack  in  his  thick 
skull  will  let  some  sense  in  him." 

"It  will  probably  let  life  out  —  §ir,"  answered  Beekman, 
with  just  an  appreciable  pause  before  the  sir. 

"Mutinous,  inefficient,  stupid  hound,"  said  Woywod.  but 
there  was  a  note  of  alarm  in  his  voice,  which  Beekman 
detected  instantly,  and  which  some  of  the  others  suspected. 
"Show  a  light  here,"  he  continued,  coming  down  to  the 
deck  and  bending  over  the  man.  "One  of  you  wash  the 
blood  off  his  face,"  he  said,  after  careful  inspection.  "I'll 
go  aft  an'  git  at  the  medicine  chest.  He's  too  thick  headed 
to  suffer  any  serious  hurt.  This'll  be  a  lesson  to  him,  an' 
to  all  of  you.  I'll  be  back  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  mate  was  really  alarmed,  although  he  did  his  best 
not  to  show  it. 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Beekman,  "but  I  want  to 
speak  to  the  captain." 


100  By  the  World  Forgot 

"What  you  got  to  say  to  him?" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  him,  sir." 

"You  can't  do  it  now.     Come  to  the  mast  tomorrow." 

"I  want  to  speak  to  him  tonight." 

"Let  him  speak  to  the  cap'n,"  shouted  Templin,  one  of 
the  most  reliable  men  on  the  ship. 

Instantly,  as  if  given  a  cue,  the  whole  watch  broke  into 
exclamations. 

"We'll  all  go  aft  with  him  to  speak  to  the  cap'n." 

"That  won't  be  necessary,"  said  Beekman,  quietly, 
although  every  nerve  was  throbbing  with  indignation  and 
resentment.  "Mr.  Woywod  will  grant  my  request.  There's 
no  need  for  the  rest  of  you  mixing  up  in  this.  Won't  you, 
Mr.  Woywod?" 

Now,  Beekman  was  in  his  rights  in  appealing  to  the 
captain  at  any  time.  Woywod  cast  a  glance  back  at  the 
still,  unconscious  figure  of  Wramm  and  decided  that  perhaps 
it  would  be  best  for  him  to  temporize.  He  wanted  to  strike 
Beekman  down,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  Wramm's  condi 
tion  and  the  mutinous  outbreak  of  the  men,  he  would  have 
done  so.  He  realized  instantly  what  Beekman's  popularity 
meant. 

"If  Cap'n  Fish  ain't  turned  in,"  he  said,  surlily,  "and  is 
willin'  to  see  you,  you  can  speak  to  him ;  if  not,  you'll  have 
to  wait  till  mornin'." 

"I  think  it's  probable  that  he's  still  awake,  sir,"  said 
Beekman.  "He'll  undoubtedly  want  to  know  what  the 
condition  of  Wramm  is." 

"I'll  tell  him." 

"No,  I'll  tell  him  myself." 

"You  will,"  shouted  Woywod,  raising  his  fist. 


Tlie  Game  and  the  End  101 

Beekman  never  moved.    The  men  came  crowding  around. 

"By  sea  law,"  said  Templin,  "he's  got  a  right  to  see  the 
master  of  the  ship,  an'  we  proposes  to  see  that  he  gits  that 
right." 

"You  mutinous  dogs,"  cried  Woywod,  confronting  them. 

But  they  were  not  overawed,  and  they  did  not  give 
back. 

"Come  along,"  he  said  to  Beekman,  "an*  you'll  be  sorry 
you  ever  done  it." 

Without  looking  behind  him,  he  sprang  up  the  ladder 
and,  followed  closely  by  Beekman,  he  went  aft,  descended 
the  companionway,  and  found  Captain  Fish  seated  at  the 
cabin  table,  on  which  a  huge  joint  of  cold  meat  and  bread 
were  spread  out,  with  some  bottles  and  glasses  to  bear  them 
company.  The  captain  was  not  alone.  The  steward,  a 
Spanish  half-caste,  named  Manuel,  had  just  brought  in  a 
steaming  pot  of  coffee  from  the  galley. 

"Well,  Mr.  Woywod,"  began  Fish,  "what  about  that 
infernal  lubber  that  caused  the  loss  of  the  mainto'gall'nt 
mast?" 

"Smith,  here,  has  come  aft  demandin'  to  see  you  an' 
p'r'aps  he'll  tell  you.  Will  you  see  him  ?" 

"What  is  it,  Smith?"  said  the  captain,  sharply. 

"Seaman  Wramm,"  began  Beekman,  "is  probably  dying. 
I'm  not  a  doctor,  but  so  near  as  I  can  make  out  he  has  a 
fractured  skull ;  his  jaw  is  certainly  broken  and  he  is  covered 
with  bruises." 

"How  came  he  in  that  condition  ?"  asked  the  captain. 

"That  murdering  blackguard  yonder  struck  him  over  the 
head  with  a  belaying  pin,  kicked  him  when  he  was  down 
and  —  " 


102  By  the  World  Forgot 

"By  God !"  cried  Woywod,  springing  forward,  "you  dare 
refer  to  me  in  that  way  ?" 

"Steady,  Mr.  Woywod,"  said  Fish,  his  eyes  gleaming. 
"I  know  how  to  deal  with  this  man.  Are  you  aware  —  you 
pretend  to  be  a  gentleman  of  education  —  that  your  lan 
guage  is  in  the  highest  degree  mutinous,  that  I  can  have 
you  put  in  double  irons,  and  — " 

"Am  I  to  stand  by  and  see  a  poor,  helpless,  dull-witted 
man,  who  has  been  hazed  to  death  every  day  of  this  cruise 
by  your  blackguardly  assessors,  beaten  to  death,  killed 
without  a  word?" 

"You'd  better  look  out  for  yourself  rather  than  for  him." 

"I  don't  care  what  becomes,  of  me.  I've  had  just  about 
enough  of  it.  If  that  man  dies,  I'm  going  to  bring  a  charge 
of  murder  against  this  bullying  scoundrel,  and  if  you  don't 
put  him  in  irons  I'll  bring  it  against  you,  too." 

Beekman  was  beside  himself  with  wrath.  His  temper  was 
gone.  His  control  had  vanished  in  thin  air.  The  cumulative 
repression  of  three  months  had  been  lost.  He  stepped 
forward,  shaking  his  fist  in  the  captain's  face. 

"Manuel,"  said  the  captain,  "tell  Mr.  Salver  to  send  a 
couple  of  men  down  here.  Tell  him  to  have  the  bo's'n  fetch 
me  some  double  irons."  Fish  was  white  with  wrath.  "Do 
you  think  I'll  allow  any  wharf  rat  like  you  to  talk  like  that 
to  me  on  my  own  ship?  I've  no  doubt  but  that  thick-headed 
Dutchman  will  recover,  but  whether  he  does  or  not  I'll  deal 
with  him.  You'll  prefer  charges  against  me,  will  you  ?  By 
God,  you  can  count  yourself  lucky  if  you're  not  swinging  at 
a  yardarm  tomorrow.  For  two  cents  I'd  run  you  up  now." 

"With  your  permission,  cap'n,"  began  Woywod.  "Keep 
fast,  Manuel,  I  can  handle  him  alone.  I've  been  itchin'  fer 


The  Game  and  the  End  103 

this  chance  ever  since  he  came  aboard.  Now,  Smith,"  he 
laughed,  evilly,  "I've  got  you.  I  knew  you  couldn't  keep 
your  temper." 

Woywod  stepped  toward  him.  Beekman  did  not  give 
back  an  inch. 

"If  you  lay  a  hand  on  me,"  he  shouted,  "if  I  have  to  die 
for  it  the  next  minute,  I'll  —  " 

But  Woywod,  who  did  not  give  him  a  chance  to  finish 
the  sentence,  with  fist  upraised  leaped  forward.  Beekman 
hit  him.  It  was  a  much  more  powerful  blow  than  the  first 
he  had  delivered  to  the  mate  on  the  day  that  he  waked  up 
and  found  himself  shanghaied.  Three  months  of  hard 
work  and  clean  living  and  plain  food  had  made  a  different 
man  of  him.  Woywod  was  lucky.  He  partly  parried  the 
blow,  but  it  struck  him  full  on  the  chest  and  drove  him 
smashing  back  against  the  bulkhead  by  the  side  of  Manuel. 
The  frightened  steward  hauled  him  to  his  feet. 

The  captain  had  arisen  and  was  bawling  for  the  officer 
of  the  watch.  He  was  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  one  of  the 
men  was  peering  down  into  the  cabin  over  the  combing  of 
the  skylight.  There  was  a  trample  of  feet  on  the  deck 
above.  Salver  himself  appeared  on  the  companion  ladder, 
but  Woywod  had  got  to  his  feet.  He  was  black  with  rage, 
mad  with  passion.  He  reached  into  the  side  pocket  of  his 
short  pea  jacket  and  drew  forth  a  heavy  revolver. 

"You're  witnesses  that  he  struck  me,"  he  cried,  as  he 
raised  the  weapon,  but  again  Beekman  was  too  quick  for  him. 

A  big,  broad-bladed  carving  knife  was  lying  by  the  side 
of  a  piece  of  salt  beef  on  the  table.  Beekman  clutched  it, 
and  as  Woywod  pulled  the  trigger,  he  leaped  forward  and 
buried  it  to  the  hilt  in  the  mate's  breast. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LAST  WORDS 

SO  POWERFUL  was  the  stroke,  so  deep  and  inveterate 
the  hate  that  nerved  the  arm,  that  the  sharp  knife  was 
driven  clear  to  the  handle  into  Woywod's  breast.  The  big 
mate  threw  up  his  arms.  He  staggered  back.  The  pistol 
went  off  harmlessly  and  dropped  on  the  table.  Then  the 
huge  hulk  of  the  stricken  man  collapsed  on  the  deck.  Quick 
as  a  flash  Captain  Fish  leaned  over  and  seized  the  weapon. 

"Make  a  move  an'  you're  a  dead  man,"  he  roared,  cover 
ing  Beekman.  "Mr.  Salver,  I'll  keep  Smith  covered  with 
this  pistol  until  you  get  the  double  irons  on  him.  Log  a 
charge  of  mutiny  an'  murder  against  him.  If  he  resists, 
you  can  go  to  any  length  to  subdue  him.  I  wouldn't  like 
him  killed  aboard  ship,  however.  I'd  rather  see  him  hanged 
ashore." 

Salver  grabbed  Beekman  by  the  shoulder. 

"You,  Manuel,  go  to  his  assistance,"  said  Fish,  still  keep 
ing  him  covered.  "You  infernal  coward,"  he  added  to  the 
steward,  who  was  as  white  as  death  and  trembling  like  a 
weather  brace  in  a  heavy  wind ;  "he  can't  do  you  no  harm. 
If  he  moves  I'll  put  a  bullet  through  him." 

But  Beekman  had  no  desire  to  do  any  one  any  harm. 
The  blow  that  had  let  life  out  of  Woywod  had  let  the 
passion  out  of  Beekman.  He  stood  staring  and  bending 
over,  he  caught  the  man's  last  broken  words. 

104 


The  Mystery  of  the  Last  Words         105 

"Done  —  for —    Tell  Harnash  —  I  —  "  and  then  silence. 

Captain  Fish  came  around  the  table  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Salver  had  got  a  firm  grip  on  one  of  Beekman's  arms  and 
the  steward  had  gingerly  taken  the  other.  Shoving  the 
pistol  close  into  Beekman's  ribs,  he  ordered  the  three  men 
on  deck.  A  passing  glance  at  Woywod  told  the  captain 
that  his  mate  was  dead.  He  could  attend  to  him  later. 
Beekman  must  be  secured  first. 

The  boatswain  had  been  awakened,  and,  according  to 
orders,  he  now  came  aft  with  the  irons.  Beekman  was 
handcuffed  and  irons  were  put  on  his  ankles.  He  was 
searched  rapidly.  His  sailor's  sheath  knife  was  taken  from 
him  and  then  — 

"Where'll  we  stow  him,  sir?"  asked  Mr.  Salver. 

There  was  no  "brig,"  as  a  prison  is  called  on  a  man-o'- 
war,  on  the  Susquehanna.  Forward  a  little  room  had  been 
partitioned  off  on  one  side  of  the  ship  abaft  the  forecastle 
for  the  boatswain.  On  the  opposite  side  there  was  another 
similar  cabin  occupied  by  the  carpenter  and  sailmaker.  The 
captain  thought  a  moment. 

"Mr.  Gersey,"  he  said,  at  last,  "you'll  come  aft  to  take 
the  second  mate's  watch.  Mr.  Salver  will  act  as  the  mate. 
Clear  your  belongings  out  of  your  cabin.  We'll  stow  him 
there  for  the  present.  Take  a  couple  of  men  to  help  you 
shift  aft,  an*  be  quick  about  it.  When  he's  safely  locked 
in  bring  me  the  key.  There's  been  mutiny  an'  murder 
aboard  my  ship,"  he  continued,  loudly,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  watch.  "This  dog  has  put  a  knife  in  Mr.  Woywod's 
heart.  Not  a  thing  was  bein'  done  to  him.  We  were  jest 
reasonin'  with  him,  treatin'  him  kind,  as  we  do  every  man 
on  this  ship.  Manuel,  here,  can  swear  to  that,  can't  you?'* 


103  By  the  World  Forgot 

"Yes,  sir,  of  course,  sir,"  cringed  the  steward,  who  was 
completely  under  the  domination  of  the  brutal  ship 
master. 

"I'll  prepare  a  proper  statement  and  enter  it  in  the  log, 
to  be  signed  by  the  steward  and  myself,  in  case  anything 
should  happen  to  us,"  he  continued. 

"What'll  I  do  with  this  man,  sir,  while  we're  waitin'  for 
Mr.  Gersey  to  git  his  cabin  cleaned  out?"  asked  Salver. 

"Lash  him  to  the  bridge  yonder.  I'll  keep  my  eyes  on 
him  until  you  git  him  safe  in  the  bo's'n's  cabin.  See  that 
the  door  is  locked  yourself  personally,  and  bring  me  the 
key.  Understand  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"We  don't  dare  to  take  no  chances  with  such  a  desperate 
murderer." 

"No,  sir;  of  course  not." 

"Men,"  shouted  the  captain,  "you  heard  what's  been 
said?" 

"We  did,  sir;  an'  we  seen  it  all  from  the  beginnin'," 
answered  a  voice  out  of  the  darkness,  a  voice  full  of  ugly 
threat  and  menace,  which  the  captain  did  not  recognize  and 
thought  best  to  pass  unnoticed. 

"Poor  Mr.  Woywod's  been  killed,  you  understand.  Mr. 
Salver  will  take  his  place  as  mate  of  the  ship.  Mr.  Gersey 
will  come  aft  as  second  mate,  to  be  obeyed  and  respected 
accordin'." 

"Damn  good  riddance,"  yelled  another  voice  out  of  the 
darkness,  carefully  disguised. 

,  This  was  too  much.  He  could  not  overlook  a  remark  of 
this  kind,  and  yet  in  the  black  night  there  was  little  he  could 
do,  since  the  speaker  was  unrecognizable. 


107 


"Who  said  that?"  blustered  the  captain,  handling  his 
pistol  and  peering  forward. 

There  was  no  answer,  of  course. 

"If  the  man  who  made  that  remark  dares  to  repeat  it  in 
daylight,  I'll  cut  his  heart  out.  An'  if  I  hear  any  more 
such  talk,  I'll  let  fly  at  the  bunch  of  you  as  it  is.  Get 
f or'ard  an'  to  your  stations." 

The  unknown  commentator  had  obviously  expressed  the 
prevalent  opinion  aboard  the  ship  on  the  death  of  Mr. 
Woywod.  There  was  nothing  else  to  be  said  or  done  then. 
The  captain's  orders  were  carried  out  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  excited  men  dispersed  without  comment,  but  with  a 
feeling  that  all  the  honors  were  with  them.  The  boatswain 
came  aft,  having  stripped  his  cabin.  The  prisoner  was 
finally  locked  therein  and  left  to  himself.  Bread  and  water 
were  handed  to  him  sufficient  to  keep  life  in  him  and  not 
much  else.  The  ship  was  hove  to  and  Woywod  was  buried 
the  next  morning  with  due  ceremony,  the  captain  himself 
reading  the  service,  the  whole  crew  being  mustered  in  due 
form,  but  never  a  man  was  shot  down  into  the  vasty  deep 
with  less  of  the  spirit  of  prayer  and  forgiveness  following 
him  than  the  mate  who  had  met  his  just  deserts,  if  the  looks 
of  the  crew,  to  which  the  captain  was  perforce  oblivious, 
gave  any  indication  of  their  feelings. 

Beekman's  reflections  could  easily  be  imagined.  To  his 
dying  day  he  would  never  forget  the  surprised,  puzzled 
look  on  the  mate's  face,  the  change  of  his  countenance  from 
mad  passion  to  astonishment,  from  that  amazement  to  pain, 
to  horror,  to  deadly  fear !  He  would  never  forget  the  con 
vulsive  struggle  of  the  man  on  the  deck  at  his  feet,  the 
white  bone  handle  of  the  knife  sticking  out  of  his  breast 


108  By  the  World  Forgot 

and  shining  in  the  light  of  the  big  hanging  lamp  against 
his  blue  shirt.  There  was  a  human  life  on  his  hands,  cal 
loused  and  hardened  as  they  were.  There  was  blood  upon 
them.  Had  the  blood  been  shed  righteously  ?  Had  he  been 
well  advised  to  give  way  to  his  passion?  Had  the  fact 
that  he  had  gone  there  in  behalf  of  another,  a  helpless 
weakling,  dying  himself  from  the  ruthless  treatment  meted 
out  to  him,  entitled  him  to  take  the  mate's  life?  Would 
the  mate  have  shot  him  with  that  pistol?  Was  it  self- 
defense?  Had  that  only  been  back  of  his  blow  and  his 
thrust? 

Beekman  had  to  admit  that  he  hated  the  mate ;  that  he  had 
lusted  to  kill  him.  He  realized  in  the  flash  of  time  that 
had  intervened  between  the  blow  and  the  thrust  that  he  had 
been  glad  of  the  excuse.  Was  he  a  murderer  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law,  in  his  own  consciousness,  in  his  heart?  He  had 
killed  the  mate,  but  the  mate  had  beaten  him  in  the  long 
struggle  between  them.  He  had  sworn  that  the  latter 
should  not  provoke  him,  but  he  had  done  so  and  now  he 
was  in  peril  of  his  life,  grave  peril.  The  presumption  of 
guilt  is  always  against  the  sailor  in  charges  of  mutiny.  It 
would  require  the  strongest  evidence  to  establish  his  inno 
cence.  He  knew  of  no  witnesses,  save  the  captain  and  the 
steward.  The  steward  was  one  man  on  the  ship  whom  he 
had  not  won.  Indeed,  having  most  of  his  relations  aft  and 
living  there  in  a  bunk  off  his  pantry,  the  steward  was  hated 
by  the  men.  He  was  a  tale-bearer  and  a  sneak.  He  had 
to  live  aft  for  his  own  protection.  He  was  purely  a  creature 
of  the  captain's.  He  would  swear  to  anything  the  captain 
dictated.  Beekman  knew  that,  of  course. 

Before  he  had  been  bound  to  the  ladder  of  the  bridge 


109 


Beekman  had  heard  what  the  captain  had  said.  The  crew, 
of  course,  could  testify  as  to  Woywod's  character,  but  he 
knew  enough  of  sailors  to  realize  they  would  scatter  as  soon 
as  they  could  get  away  from  the  ship.  He  could  scarcely 
depend  upon  them.  There  was  old  Gersey,  but  what  could 
he  do?  What  could  he  hope  from  the  Russian  authorities 
at  Vladisvostok  ?  The  captain  would  be  hand  and  glove  with 
them,  naturally.  Things  looked  black  for  Beekman. 

After  a  time,  reviewing  again  all  the  scenes  of  the  dread 
ful  drama  his  mind  reverted  to  those  final  words  of  Woy 
wod's.  He  remembered  them  perfectly.  They  were  etched 
upon  his  brain. 

"Done  for.    Tell  Harnash  I  —  " 

He  repeated  those  words.  The  first  two  were  clear.  But 
the  last  three  — 

"Tell  Harnash  I  —  " 

Tell  Harnash  what?  Why  tell  Harnash  anything?  What 
did  he  have  to  do  with  the  present  situation  ?  Harnash  was 
his  friend.  Harnash  had  arranged  his  bachelor  dinner. 
Harnash  had  jokingly  plied  him  with  wine,  but  so  had  the 
others.  Beekman  was  an  abstemious,  temperate  chap.  He 
drank  occasionally,  in  a  moderate  way,  but  never  to  excess. 
It  was  Harnash  who  had  taken  the  lead  in  urging  him.  He 
had  gone  out  from  that  dinner  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning  with  Harnash,  and  the  last  person  he  remembered 
was  Harnash.  Could  Harnash  have  — 

Good  God,  no !  It  was  impossible.  It  could  not  be. 
Such  treachery,  such  criminality  was  unthinkable  by  a  loyal 
man  like  Beekman.  There  was  no  motive  for  it.  The 
business  affairs  of  the  firm  were  prosperous.  At  his  partner's 
insistence  an  expert  had  gone  over  the  books  on  his  return 


110  By  the  World  Forgot 

from  Hawaii.  There  was  not  a  thing  wrong.  He  would 
have  trusted  Harnash  with  everything  he  owned,  and  with 
right.  He  could  not  have  wanted  to  get  him  out  of  the 
way,  unless  — 

Why  had  Harnash  looked  so  haggard  and  miserable? 
Why  had  Stephanie  presented  the  same  countenance? 
Could  those  two —  He  would  not  think  it.  Yet  what  could 
Woywod  have  meant? 

Suddenly  Beekman  remembered  that  he  had  heard  Har 
nash  had  a  sailor  friend,  who  at  infrequent  intervals  was 
accustomed  to  visit  him.  There  had  been  some  reference 
to  it.  Beekman  had  never  heard  the  man's  name,  and  he 
never  chanced  to  have  met  him.  Woywod  had  never  referred 
to  Harnash  in  Beekman's  hearing  on  that  cruise  until  those 
faltered  words  as  he  died.  Could  it  be  Woywod?  It  must. 
Was  it  merely  chance  that  Beekman  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  Harnash's  friend  on  the  very  night  before  his 
wedding,  when  his  last  companion  had  been  Harnash  himself? 

Now,  Beekman  was  an  intensely  loyal  man  and  he  reso 
lutely  put  these  suspicions  out  of  his  mind,  but  they  would 
not  stay  out.  Why  should  Woywod  stare  up  at  him  with 
fast  closing  eyes  as  he  spoke?  Did  Woywod  know  who 
Beekman  was?  Were  those  muttered  words  an  admission? 
By  heaven,  could  it  be  that  Harnash  was  in  love  with 
Stephanie  and  she  with  him? 

When  Beekman  asked  himself  that  question  he  began 
to  go  over  the  times  in  which  he  had  seen  the  two  together. 
Little  things,  unnoticed  and  unmarked  before  now,  grew 
strangely  significant.  Beekman  loathed  himself  for  enter 
taining  the  suspicions.  It  was  not  possible,  yet —  Could 
Stephanie  herself  be  a  party  to  it?  That,  too,  was  unthink- 


Ill 


able.  So  it  was  that  Harnash  —  Yet  those  words !  Well, 
if  he  could  get  out  of  this  horrible  situation  now,  so  much 
worse  than  it  had  been,  he  certainly  would  tell  Harnash  and 
Harnash  should  tell  him.  Meanwhile,  there  was  added  to 
his  horror  and  regret  the  fact  that  Woywod  was  dead  and 
that  he  had  killed  him. 

A  strange  and  terrible  reality,  that,  to  this  sometime 
dilettante  in  life. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  TRIANGLE  BECOMES  A  QUADRILATERAL 

ERHAPS  no  one  ever  realizes  so  completely  the  immen- 
sity  of  the  world  and  the  littleness  of  man  as  he  who  is 
alone  on  the  face  of  the  waters.  The  deep  becomes  indeed 
vasty  when  seen  from  a  small  boat  in  the  center  of  an 
unbroken  horizon.  It  is  a  question  whether  the  loneliness 
of  the  desert  is  greater  than  the  loneliness  of  the  sea.  Per 
haps  it  depends  upon  the  thinker  and  his  temperament. 
There  is,  of  course,  life  in  the  sea  in  that  it  is  usually  quick, 
in  motion,  and  there  is  sound  that  accompanies  it. 

The  desert  is  still,  but  in  the  desert  you  can  get  some 
where.  You  know  that  beyond  the  horizon  is  some  place. 
Not  even  the  flattest  land  but  suggests  change  as  it  is 
traversed.  Somewhere  within  reaching  distance  hills  rise, 
mountains  lift  themselves  in  the  air,  oases  beckon  attract 
ively.  In  the  sea  you  may  go  for  days  and  days  and  days, 
each  day  like  the  other,  and  still  find  only  the  waste  of 
waters  and  the  unbroken  horizon. 

Beekman  had  sailed  every  one  of  the  seven  seas,  but  in 
some  luxurious  yacht  or  some  mighty  ocean  liner.  This  was 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  ever  been  alone  in  a  small 
boat.  Even  the  Susquehanna  had  long  since  faded  out  of 
his  view.  The  lights  from  her  stern  windows  had  been  lost 
during  the  night,  and  when  day  broke,  although  he  eagerly 
searched  the  northwest,  there  was  no  sign  of  her.  Not  even 

112 


The  Triangle  Becomes  a  Quadrilateral    113 

when  he  rose  high  on  some  uptossed  wave  could  he  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  to'gall'nts'l  or  a  royal  against  the  blue  line  of 
the  horizon. 

He  was  glad  and  he  was  sorry  to  be  alone.  The  gladness 
manifested  itself  presently,  but  at  first  he  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  sense  of  loneliness.  The  crew  of  the  Susquehanna 
had  not  mutinied  openly,  but  they  had  taken  matters  in  their 
own  hands  and  had  done  the  best  they  could  for  the  man 
who  had  relieved  them,  whether  righteously  or  unrighteously 
they  did  not  stop  to  speculate,  from  a  tyranny  that  had 
become  unsupportable ;  because,  in  his  animosity  to  Beek- 
man,  Woywod  had  been  harder  than  ever  before  on  the 
rest. 

They  had  deliberately,  if  surreptitiously,  provisioned  the 
whaleboat  which  hung  from  the  davits  astern.  They  had 
filled  her  water  breakers,  had  added  a  compass,  had  over 
hauled  her  mast  and  sail,  had  thrown  in  a  couple  of  blankets, 
a  tarpaulin,  an  axe  and  some  tools  and  whatever  else  they 
could  come  at,  including  a  little  bag  of  silver  dollars  from 
their  own  scanty  store,  which  might  prove  valuable  in  the 
end.  They  had  done  this  very  quietly  in  the  darkness,  under 
the  leadership  of  Templin  on  the  night  following  the  death 
of  the  mate. 

They  had  chosen  Mr.  Gersey's  watch  for  their  operations 
and  he  had  been  conveniently  blind.  Possessing  themselves 
of  the  carpenter's  tools,  they  had  bored  holes  around  the 
lock  of  the  boatswain's  room  and  had  freed  Beekman.  With 
cold  chisels  and  hammers  they  had  struck  the  fetters  from 
his  wrists  and  ankles,  grievously  cutting  him  and  bruising 
him  in  the  process. 

"Mr.  Gersey  told  us,"  said  Templin  to  the  astonished 


114  By  the  World  Forgot 

prisoner,  "that  he  heard  the  old  man  an'  Salver  plottin' 
the  ship's  position  at  noon  today.  There  are  islands  with 
white  people  on  'em  about  a  hundred  leagues  to  the  west'ard. 
The  course'll  be  about  sou'west-by-west.  We've  pervisioned 
the  whaleboat.  She's  unsinkable,  with  her  airtight  tanks 
for'ard  an'  aft  an'  a  good  sailer.  I  follered  you  aft,  per- 
tendin'  to  overhaul  the  gear  on'  the  mizzen  mast  last  night. 
Through  the  skylight  I  seen  the  mate  threatenin'  you  with 
a  pistol  in  the  cabin.  We  all  believes  you  done  perfectly 
right.  Wramm's  dead.  Died  tonight,  without  never  regainin' 
consciousness.  Woywod  was  a  murderer,  if  ever  there  was 
one,  an'  he  got  his  jest  desarts.  We  don't  want  to  mutiny 
an'  git  hung  for  it.  Some  of  us  has  families.  But  we 
don't  mean  you  to  suffer.  The  only  way  to  save  you  is  to 
git  vou  out  of  the  ship  afore  we  lands  at  Vladivostok.  It 
seemeHPto  us  that  a  good  sailor  like  you  could  easily  make 
them  islands,  an'  then  you  can  shift  for  yourself.  It's  a  big 
world.  They'll  never  find  you  again.  Here,"  he  added,  "is 
a  little  bag  o'  dollars."  He  passed  a  bulging  little  bag  into 
the  hands  of  the  astonished  Beekman.  "  'Tain't  much,  but 
it's  all  we  got.  I  guess  that's  all." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  leave  the  ship." 

"You'll  be  hung  at  the  end  of  the  v'yage  if  you  don't," 
said  Templin,  inexorably.  "Them  Russians  ain't  more'n 
half  civilized,  anyway,  an'  they'll  do  pretty  much  as  the 
cap'n  says.  This  is  your  only  chance." 

"Does  Gersey  know?" 

"Of  course.  He's  the  one  that  made  the  whole  plan, 
only  the  officers  ain't  to  know  that." 

"You  don't  expect  to  be  able  to  lower  that  boat  and  cast 
it  adrift  without  attracting  attention,  do  you  ?" 


The  Triangle  Becomes  a  Quadrilateral    115 

"In  course  not,  but  it's  a  dark  night  an'  we're  goin'  to 
git  you  down  an'  afloat,  whatever  happens." 

"But  the  captain  will  immediately  come  after  me." 

"He  can't  brace  the  yards  hisself  an'  work  the  ship  alone 
with  only  Salver  an'  the  bo's'n,  can  he  ?" 

"I  see,  but  I  don't  want  to  get  you  in  trouble." 

"Every  man  on  the  ship  'ceptin'  the  steward  is  with  you, 
an'  we're  simply  not  goin'  to  let  him  hang  you." 

"Templin,  I  want  you  to  remember  two  names  and  an 
address." 

"What  are  they?" 

"Harnash  and  Beekman,  33  Broadway,  New  York." 

"That's  easy,"  said  Templin,  repeating  the  words. 
"Why?" 

"That's  my  address  when  I'm  home.  If  I  ever  get  home 
and  any  of  you  men  want  a  friend,  come  there.  I  want 
you  to  pass  that  around  among  the  crew,  every  one  of  them. 
You  fellows  didn't  believe  me,  but  now  that  I'm  going  I 
want  to  tell  you  for  the  last  time  my  story  is  true,  and  if 
you  want  to  be  fixed  for  life,  just  come  and  see  me  there." 

"Well,  I  hopes  you  gits  there,  Smith,  or  —  " 

"Beekman." 

"Beekman,  then." 

"And  I,  and  I,  and  I,"  was  heard  from  the  various 
members  of  the  watch  gathered  about  and  speaking  in  low 
tones. 

"Now,  come  aft,"  said  Templin,  "an'  tread  soft.  "There's 
no  use  arousin'  the  old  man  if  we  can  help  it.  Only  needs 
four  of  us  to  overhaul  the  gear  an'  lower  away,"  continued 
the  ringleader,  picking  out  three  associates.  "The  rest  of 
you  git  down  in  the  shadder  of  the  rail  on  the  lee  side  of 


116  By  the  World  Forgot 

the  waist  near  the  bridge.  Mr.  Gersey  is  keepin'  a  bright 
lookout  to  windward.  If  you  hear  any  noise,  come  aft  on 
the  run." 

Without  making  a  sound,  Beekman  and  his  four  devoted 
friends  passed  under  the  bridge,  crouching  down  in  the 
shadow  of  the  lee  rail  until  they  were  well  aft  and  sheltered 
from  observation  by  the  broad  canvas  of  the  spanker.  Mr. 
Gersey  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge,  staring  hard 
forward  and  up  to  windward  in  the  most  approved  fashion. 

"You'll  find  everything  ready  for  steppin'  the  mast  an' 
spreadin'  sail,"  whispered  Templin.  "The  sea's  fairly 
smooth,  the  wind's  blowin'  from  the  east'ard.  You'd  better 
git  the  canvas  on  her  soon's  you  can.  You  hadn't  ought  to 
be  in  sight  of  us  at  daybreak." 

"What  time  is  it  now?" 

Three  bells  were  struck  forward  at  the  moment,  a  couplet 
and  then  a  single  bell. 

"Three  bells,  you  hears,"  answered  Templin.  "You'll 
have  three  hours,  and  with  you  goin'  one  way  an'  us  another, 
we'll  be  out  of  sight  before  daybreak.  Remember,  your 
course  is  sou'west-by-west." 

"I  shan't  forget  that  or  anything.  When  you  have  a 
chance  bid  Gersey  good-bye  for  me  and  tell  him  not  to 
forget  the  cable.  God  only  knows  where  I'll  turn  up  or 
when  I'll  get  back,  but  when  I  do  —  well,  remember  what  I 
said,  Harnash  and  Beekman,  33  Broadway,  New  York." 

He  shook  Templin's  hand  and  nodded  to  the  other  three 
and  stepped  into  the  boat. 

"Lower  away,"  whispered  Templin. 

Now  the  night  was  quiet.  The  breeze  was  not  strong. 
The  creaking  of  the  falls,  since  the  sailors  had  taken  pre- 


The  Triangle  Becomes  a  Quadrilateral     117 

caution  to  grease  them,  was  reduced  to  a  minimum ;  still, 
some  sound  was  made.  Gersey  had  kept  his  eyes  steadily 
forward,  although  he  knew,  of  course,  everything  that  was 
happening.  He  glanced  around  just  as  the  Avhaleboat 
disappeared  below  the  rail. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  Captain  Fish,  who  slept,  of  course, 
in  the  stern  cabin,  happened  to  be  wakeful.  With  an  ear 
trained  and  accustomed  to  all  the  ordinary  noises  of  the 
ship,  anything  out  of  common  raised  his  suspicions.  He . 
heard  the  slight  creaking.  He  sat  up  in  his  berth  and 
listened.  The  noise  came  from  aft,  overhead.  He  ran  to 
the  stern  window  and  peered  through  the  open  transom  just 
at  the  moment  that  the  keel  of  the  descending  whaleboat 
came  on  a  level  with  the  window.  Fish  slept  with  a  revolver 
under  his  pillow.  He  leaped  back,  grabbed  the  pistol, 
jumped  to  the  transom  again  to  find  himself  staring  into  the 
face  of  Beekman. 

"Keep  fast  those  falls,"  he  roared,  presenting  his  pistol. 

Beekman  was  standing  up  in  the  boat,  fending  her  off  from 
the  stern  with  a  boathook.  Fish  had  turned  on  the  electric 
light  —  the  SusqueJumna  was  provided  with  a  dynamo  — 
and  he  was  clearly  visible.  Beekman  struck  his  arm  with 
the  boathook,  knocking  the  pistol  into  the  sea.  The  next 
instant  there  was  a  sudden  roar  on  the  deck  above  from 
Gersey,  who  judged  that  it  was  now  safe  to  give  the  alarm. 
This  outcry  was  followed  by  the  trampling  of  many  feet 
and  a  swift  rush  of  the  falls  through  the  blocks.  There 
was  no  necessity  for  concealment  now.  Templin  and  his  men 
lowered  the  boat  with  a  run. 

Beekman  worked  smartly.  As  soon  as  the  boat  was  water- 
borne  he  cast  off  the  tackles  and  began  tugging  frantically 


118  By  the  World  Forgot 

at  the  mast.  With  seamanlike  care,  it  had  been  so  arranged 
that  what  had  been  almost  an  impossible  task  for  one  man 
in  a  hurry  he  could  easily  accomplish.  The  SusqueTianna 
was  sailing  at  a  smart  rate  and  she  had  drawn  some  distance 
ahead  before  Captain  Fish  reached  the  deck.  He  was  in  a 
towering  rage. 

"Mr.  Gersey,"  he  roared,  "what  does  this  mean,  sir?  The 
prisoner  has  escaped,  an'  in  your  watch?" 

"I  know  it,  sir,"  answered  Gersey.  "The  men  have  got 
out  of  hand,  sir." 

"They  have,"  exclaimed  Fish.  He  had  mounted  half 
way  up  the  accommodation  ladder  of  the  bridge.  Although 
he  was  unarmed  and  clad  only  in  his  pajamas,  he  did  not 
hesitate  on  that  account. 

"I'll  see  about  that,"  he  roared.  "I'll  have  no  mutiny 
on  my  ship."  He  ran  toward  the  group  seen  blackly  against 
the  white  rail  aft,  shouting,  "The  man  that  did  this  will 
swing  for  it." 

"Scatter,"  cried  a  voice. 

The  group  instantly  dissolved  in  the  darkness  of  the  deck. 
Fish  made  a  grab  at  the  nearest  one,  but  a  man  behind  him 
ran  violently  into  him.  He  lost  his  hold.  In  a  moment 
the  quarter  deck  was  deserted.  The  Susquehanna  on  her 
present  course  had  the  wind  broad  abeam. 

"Mr.  Gersey,"  roared  the  captain,  "call  all  hands  and 
stand  by  to  wear  ship.  We  must  pick  up  that  boat  with 
that  murdering  mutineer  aboard." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir.    For'ard  there.    Call  the  other  watch." 

Now  the  other  watch  was  awake  and  waiting.  Some  of 
them,  indeed,  had  participated  in  the  affair  of  the  night. 
Scarcely  had  the  boatswain's  mate  sounded  the  call,  when 


The  Triangle  Becomes  a  Quadrilateral     119 

the  watch  below  came  tumbling  up  from  the  forecastle.  Mr. 
Salver  also  joined  the  group  on  the  bridge,  rubbing  his  eyes 
sleepily.  The  captain  took  charge  himself. 

"Hands  to  the  weather  braces,"  he  cried,  "ease  off  the 
spanker  sheet.  Flatten  in  the  head  sails  for'ard.  Hard  up 
with  the  helm." 

Not  a  man  on  the  deck  stirred.  No  one  ran  to  the  weather 
braces.  No  one  cast  off  the  lee  braces.  The  helmsman 
remained  immobile.  The  spanker  sheet  was  not  eased  off. 
The  sheets  of  the  head  sails  were  not  hauled  aft.  The 
captain  stared  a  moment  in  astonishment. 

"Wear  ship,"  he  cried,  "don't  you  hear  me?" 

"We  heerd  you,"  answered  a  voice  out  of  the  darkness, 
"but  we're  not  goin'  to  wear  the  ship." 

"You  refuse  to  obey  orders?" 

"We'll  obey  all  other  orders,  same  as  we  have  allus  done, 
but  we  don't  propose  to  pick  up  that  there  whaleboat." 

"Who  spoke?"  roared  the  captain. 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  groups  of  men  in  the 
darkness.  Templin's  voice,  well  disguised,  came  first  from 
one  side  of  the  deck  to  the  other,  as  he  moved  about  while 
he  spoke. 

"You  might  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to  it,  Cap'n  Fish. 
We're  determined  that  no  harm  is  to  come  to  Smith.  He's 
gone.  For  the  rest,  we'll  work  the  ship  to  Vladisvostok, 
which  we  signed  on  for.  You'll  find  us  obeyin'  orders  same 
as  ever  in  the  mornin'." 

Captain  Fish  was  black  with  rage. 

"Mr.  Gersey,"  he  roared,  "do  you  know  anything  about 
this?" 

"Not  a  thing,  sir." 


120  By  the  World  Forgot 

"We  done  it  ourselves,"  came  up  from  the  waist. 

"Keep  fast  the  braces,"  said  the  captain  at  last;  "keep 
her  on  her  course." 

Inasmuch  as  she  had  never  been  off  her  course  and  the 
braces  had  not  been  touched,  the  commands  were  useless. 
They  were  simply  given  to  save  the  captain's  face  a  little. 

"Mr.  Salver,"  he  continued,  "it's  your  watch  below.  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  in  the  cabin.  Pipe  down  the  watch 
off,  Mr.  Gersey.  We'll  settle  this  matter  in  the  morning." 

But  the  captain  knew  and  the  men  knew  that  the  matter 
was  already  settled.  If  the  men  hung  together  there  was 
no  way  by  which  the  captain  could  discover  the  ringleader. 
And  he  could  not  imprison  the  whole  ship's  company.  They 
had  beaten  him.  The  flight  had  been  carefully  planned 
and  carried  out  in  a  bold  and  seamanlike  way. 

"You've  beat  me,"  said  the  captain  the  next  morning  to 
the  crew  as  the  watches  were  changed,  "but  there's  a  standin' 
offer  of  five  hundred  dollars  for  any  one  who'll  gimme  the 
details  an'  the  names  of  the  ringleaders.  Meanwhile,  if  any 
one  of  you  gives  me  the  least  cause  I'll  shoot  him  like  a 
dog.  Mr.  Salver  an'  Mr.  Gersey  are  both  armed  like  me," 
he  tapped  the  heavy  revolver  hanging  at  his  waist,  "so 
look  out  for  yourselves.  I've  no  doubt  some  of  you'll 
squeal.  I'll  find  out  yet.  God  help  the  men  that  did  it  when 
I  do." 

The  captain's  bribe  was  a  large  one.  There  were  men 
in  th'e  forecastle  who  would  have  jumped  at  it,  but  a  very 
clear  realization  of  what  would  be  meted  out  to  them  by 
their  fellows  if  they  turned  traitor,  kept  them  quiet.  The 
loyal  men  among  the  mutineers  knew  pretty  well  who  were 
to  be  suspected  and  kept  close  watch  on  them. 


The  Triangle  Becomes  a  Quadrilateral    121 

Beekman  knew  nothing  of  all  that,  of  course,  the  next 
morning  as  he  made  his  meager  breakfast.  He  did  not  know 
how  long  it  would  take  him  to  reach  those  islands,  the  very 
name  of  which  he  was  ignorant,  and  it  behooved  him  to 
husband  his  resources'.  After  his  breakfast  he  laid  his 
course  by  the  compass.  The  breeze  held  steady.  All 
he  had  to  do  was  to  steer  the  boat.  At  nightfall  he 
decided  to  furl  sail  and  drift.  For  one  thing  he  needed 
the  sleep. 

The  next  day,  however,  the  breeze  came  stronger.  It 
gradually  shifted  from  the  southeast  toward  the  north.  He 
reefed  the  sail  down  until  it  barely  showed  a  scrap  of  canvas 
and  drove  ahead  of  it.  There  was  no  sleep  for  him  through 
the  night.  He  did  not  dare  to  leave  the  boat  to  her  own 
devices  in  that  wind  and  sea.  The  wind  rose  with  every 
hour.  The  next  morning  it  was  blowing  a  howling  gale 
from  the  northeast.  He  could  no  longer  keep  sail  on  the 
boat.  He  could  not  row  against  it.  Fortunately,  he  had 
foreseen  the  situation.  He  unstepped  the  mast  and  unshipped 
the  yard  with  which  he  pried  up  some  of  the  seats  and  with 
these  and  spare  oars  he  made  himself  a  serviceable  sea 
anchor,  which  he  attached  to  the  boat's  painter  forward, 
cast  overboard,  and  by  this  means  drifted  with  the  storm 
being  at  the  same  time  wet,  cold,  lonely,  and  very  miserable. 
He  knew  the  boat  was  a  lifeboat;  its  air  tanks  would  keep 
it  from  sinking,  but  if  it  ever  fell  into  the  trough  of  the 
sea  it  would  be  rolled  over  and  over  like  a  cork.  It  would 
(fill  with  water  and  refill  in  spite  of  his  constant  bailing.  He 
j:ould  only  trust  to  his  sea  anchor  to  keep  the  boat's  head 
;:o  the  huge  seas  by  which  it  was  alternately  uplifted  and 
last  down  in  vast,  prodigious  motion.  Had  it  not  been 


